


I'll Be Yours (A Love Story)

by Zolac_no_Miko



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M, Scary!Timmy Is Not Your Friend, This Is A Little Fucked Up, dark au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zolac_no_Miko/pseuds/Zolac_no_Miko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim Drake loves Dick Grayson more than anyone or anything else in the world.  When Dick meets Tim, he will love Tim, too, and he will be Tim's forever.  (WIP)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd in early chapters. ...Welcome to my _other_ epic; I don't know how many chapters this will be; however many I need to contain the plot. ...So, hey, you know how little Timmy is obsessed with Dick and stalks him and Bruce and takes pictures of them like the tiny little creeper he is? In this AU I take that idea and run with it. I run a marathon. To dark, twisty, scary, bad places. If you're looking for happy, wholesome, and well-adjusted, _look elsewhere_. Credit to the Placebo song "I'll be Yours" for the title; this bunny was spawned by and heavily influenced by music, so expect song lyrics to pop up frequently. I will credit where appropriate.
> 
> Warnings first chapter: mental illness, discussion of death, general creepiness. In future chapters, expect the recreational killing of animals, murder, violence, blood, severed body parts, discussion of sexuality in minors, etc, etc; in short, _AU!Timmy is not your friend_
> 
> Also [available on Livejournal](http://zolac-no-miko.livejournal.com/76161.html).

My mom and dad don't love me. They're afraid of me. This used to make me sad, but not anymore. I'm okay with it. Afraid is almost as good.

Afraid keeps them away on long trips, where they don't have to see me or think about me. They come back to Gotham City once or twice a year, and when they do they ask me questions. How am I? What have I been doing with my time? Have I made any new friends? They avert their eyes when I answer and try to believe I'm telling them the truth. They don't really want to know. It's easier for them to pretend that the therapy had some effect on me, that the tiny, crumpled bodies, feathers and hair and bone, are a thing of the past. They want to avoid a scandal. They don't want to be the ones with the crazy son. So they believe my lies, and even when they're home they keep their distance.

The rest of the year , I am someone else's problem. They used to leave me with a housekeeper. There have been several. Each gave my parents a different reason for leaving. Most of them are liars. All of them left because, like my parents, they are afraid of me. (I hurt some of them.)

Now I stay at a boarding school. I've learned to pretend I'm like the others so they can't get rid of me. I like it there. There are a lot of boys at the school, too many to keep track of. It's easy for me to slip away, and nobody notices. Nobody knows. And I can do whatever I want.

Whatever I want.

~ ~ ~

Let me tell you about the two most important days of my life.

The first is one of my earliest memories. My mom and dad were still trying to love me back then. And, looking back, I think they were worried about me. I've heard them say, "Our Timothy was such a quiet child, so very shy, he didn't play well with the other children," with that pinched look around their eyes that means they're distressed.

This particular day they took me to the circus, for the first and only time. I remember at first being uncomfortable. It was crowded with strangers, noisy, smelly people.

And then I met Dick.

He was walking by with his parents; they were getting ready to perform. _The Flying Graysons._ My parents asked if they would take a photograph with us.

Dick was not noisy or smelly. He put his hand on my shoulder and leaned in close. He smiled at me. "Hello, Tim," he said. Tim, not Timothy, like my parents called me. Tim. "My name is Dick."

We took our photograph, our parents standing together, Dick on one knee and me pulled up tight against him with his arm around my shoulders. Dick smiled. I smiled.

I still have that photograph. It is my favorite. It is the proof of that wonderful memory. Dick was not like the other children, who avoided me on the playground and never asked me to play. Dick loved me.

"Watch me on the trapeze, Tim," Dick told me. "I'm going to do the quadruple somersault, just for you." He smiled.

On the trapeze Dick was wonderful. He flew so easily, so effortlessly. And like he promised, he did a quadruple somersault. Just for me.

Dick stood high up on the platform, smiling and waving. Then his parents flew. He watched. I watched. I saw the ropes snap. I watched them fall, and fall, and fall. I heard the noise when they stopped falling, stopped moving.

I dream about that often. And in my dreams I remember Dick up above us on the platform, alone, looking down.

(He didn't want to come down again. One of the circus-people had to climb up to get him.)

...The other most important day of my life happened when I was nine years old. My mom and dad were home for once, and so was I; they hadn't sent me to the boarding school yet. My parents were in their respective studies with their doors closed; I was doing my homework and listening to the news on television.

The newscaster said, "Gotham City's Dynamic Duo." I put my pen down and looked at the screen. The network had received exclusive footage of Batman and Robin apprehending the Penguin, caught on security tape.

It was an exciting and rare event. I watched avidly. Batman's cape flared as he dodged gunfire. Robin crouched high up on a catwalk railing. He launched himself into space, somersaulting through the air before landing on the Penguin, dropping him.

The footage continued, but I sat frozen. My world had just changed.

Robin had done a quadruple somersault. Dick Grayson was the only person in the world who could do a quadruple somersault, now that his parents were dead.

 _Dick was Robin._

I sat that way for a long time, beyond sight and hearing. I had thought Dick was wonderful. Now I knew how amazing he really was. The protègé, partner, and equal of Batman, the Boy Wonder, the teenaged scourge of Gotham's dark underbelly. The most amazing person in the world. Strong. Smart. Beautiful.

Perfect.

For weeks I waited for the rest of the world to have the same revelation, but it never happened. No one remembered or cared about Dick's career as a circus acrobat, only Dick Grayson the young ward of billionaire Bruce Wayne. (Bruce Wayne, the Batman.) No one else made the connection. No one else knew what I knew.

It was fate. It was fate that I should meet Dick on the day of his parents' death, on the day he met Batman. It was fate that Dick would do the quadruple somersault just for me, so that years later I would see him on the news and know him. Fate decreed that his secret would be given to me, and me alone.

I realized then that Dick and I were connected. We were meant to be together. One day we would meet, and Dick would love me again.

~ ~ ~

I have worked long and hard to better myself, to be worthy of him. I am not naturally perfect like Dick; I have had to push myself to the limit, mentally and physically. I have skipped grades; I take advanced courses and excel in every one, especially in the sciences. I have studied gymnastics, jujitsu, riflery. I have taught myself parkour, sleight of hand, lipreading, lock-picking, how to hot-wire a car. I have studied Dick and Bruce. Dick shares all his secrets with me. I know the identities of Dick's friends, Superman (Clark Kent), Batgirl (Barbara Gordon), each member of the Teen Titans and most of their mentors. I know the location of the Batcave and a few of its entrances. I know a few of the safehouses, too, places in the city Robin and Batman go to rest, to heal, to eat. I know the routes they are most likely to take across the rooftops, the vantage points they are most likely to occupy to keep their vigil over Gotham's streets and alleys. I've been following them for years, and I'm very good at it now. I have my own routes and vantage points.

I go out, not every night, but most nights. I don't always see them. Sometimes only once in two weeks or longer; sometimes twice within a few days. There is nothing in my life more important than this. I live to see the flash of red and green and gold against Gotham's shadows, or Dick's profile and billowing cape silhouetted against the underlit clouds of Gotham's sullen sky. Each sighting is like the very first time: my breath goes short, my skin goes hot; I tremble, I shudder, I ache. I burn to be closer to Dick, to hear him, smell him, touch him.

I'm almost ready. The day we will meet will be here soon, so soon. And we will be together forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old adversary escapes from Arkham, and it's Batman and Robin's job to find and stop her. Problem is... Robin's kind of dropped the ball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd. ...No Timmy in this chapter, sorry. Timmy POV will be every other chapter in this story. But don't get too comfortable... it's Timmy's hobby to stalk the Batfamily, and they haven't noticed him lurking in the shadows thus far. So remember, as you're reading this story (to paraphrase the horrible '50s PSA)... one never knows when the **Timmy** may be about!!
> 
> Warnings this chapter- some blood and violence, dead people, life-threatening situations, I think all of one swear word.

A casual observer wouldn’t be able to tell that Batman was limping as he returned to the Batmobile, but he was. Brusquely yanking a box from its storage container near the door of the vehicle, he removed a small canister. Shaking it twice, he sprayed the blood-coagulating agent into a gaping wound on his thigh. His jaw clenched as the foam expanded, but not from the pain. Each jerky motion he made screamed frustration and anger as he removed a Batsuit-colored roll of bandaging from the med-kit and started to do a quick-and-dirty patch-up of his leg.

Batman opened a commlink. “ **Robin!** _Where are you?!_ ” he growled.

“Sorry, Boss, I got held up in New York. ETA thirty minutes. …You sound upset. What happened?”

“You weren’t here and Isley _escaped_ , that’s what happened!” Batman snarled.

“ _What?!_ You said our contact told you she was going to make her move during the 3:15 shift-change!”

“ _You_ said you’d be back in Gotham by _sundown_!” Batman yanked a knot tight angrily. “Our contact in Arkham is _dead_. Isley _knew_ ; she changed her plans. And she had help. The security detail was completely overwhelmed.”

“I–”

“ **Stop.** No time. You reviewed the list I sent you?”

“Yes, I–”

“Head to 1145 Washington Street. I’ll check the others. _Call me if you see her._ Understood?”

“…Understood.”

Batman shoved the med kit back in its compartment, sliding into the Batmobile and starting the engine. “Batman out.”

~ ~ ~

1145 Washington Street was a stalled-out community development project. A non-profit organization called the Green Gotham Alliance had purchased an old, defunct office building and, with donations and government grants, begun converting it into affordable, environmentally friendly apartments. Shade trellises to cut cooling costs, solar water heating, a wind turbine, and a rooftop community garden and greenhouse were all part of the plan.

Then, halfway through the refurbishing, asbestos was discovered in the walls, and the project was suspended indefinitely, pending removal.

Following his usual Be Prepared For Everything policy, Batman had compiled a list of places Dr. Pamela Isley was likely to go to ground in the event of her escape from Arkham, or her falling off the wagon post-rehabilitation and release. Places she’d used before, places she was connected to by rumor, places her profile indicated she might like. There were no rumors (that Batman had heard) connecting Isley to 1145 Washington, but it was definitely the kind of real estate she’d be interested in: abandoned and unwelcoming to visitors, with accommodation for her plants.

Robin crouched at the edge of an adjacent rooftop, looking down on 1145 with narrowed eyes. There was no movement amongst the abandoned piles of building supplies and half-finished garden on the roof. No lights shone through the semi-opaque, translucent sheeting of the greenhouse.

 _Better take a closer look._ Robin stood and took a couple of steps back. Then, with three short, sprinting steps he launched himself into space, tucking himself into a roll as he hit the roof of 1145 and ending in a crouch in the cover of a stack of unused PVC pipes. He held his breath for a few beats, listening.

Hearing nothing, he rose fluidly to his feet and made his way to the greenhouse, slipping like a shadow between lumber piles and stacked rolls of plastic sheeting. Robin undid the simple latch on the door and, pulling the door open, stepped inside.

The greenhouse was definitely in use. Lush, exotic growth poured out of pots and planters. The air was warm and humid in contrast to the chilled night air of Gotham in March.

Robin took a cautious step forward, removing two Batarangs from his utility belt and nervously watching the plants. He cursed himself for running late, for not having time to pick up herbicide at the Cave. If these were Ivy’s plants….

Robin moved deeper into the greenhouse, eyes straining to catch a glimpse of movement, human or vegetable. _I should leave,_ he told himself. _I should get out. I should call Bruce and– is that a person?_

He froze. At the end of the greenhouse, near the other door, was a distinctly human shape. Robin sidestepped, sliding between two large barrels and into the next row, using a tangle of viny growth as cover. Quiet as smoke, he slipped closer to the end of the row.

There were two of them, definitely human. Upright against the far wall, but perfectly motionless. The door was ajar. Robin frowned. Pulling out a penlight, he flicked it on– and recoiled.

They were bodies, shriveled, almost mummified, pulled tightly against a trellis and held upright by vines. Pale green tendrils wrapped around them, disappeared into ears, eye sockets, nostrils, mouths. “Holy–”

Movement in the corner of his eye. Robin spun, dropping the penlight. He slashed out with a Batarang, sliced the vine that had been reaching for his wrist. Other vines were already brushing against the backs of his arms and legs, slithering against his cape. Robin made a dive for the door, slashing wildly, using his Batarangs like cane knives; a writhing tangle closed in front of him, blocking his way. Brambles snagged at his clothes; pale tendrils reached blindly towards his face (–ears, eyes sockets, nostrils, mouth–).

Robin whirled again, starting to sprint down the wide center aisle, but it was too late. A thick, green cable coiled around one ankle, tripping him and sending him sprawling. He reached down to cut it, but vines were already wrapping around his wrist, his chest, his throat. He was pinned, hopelessly ensnared in the tangle, struggling in vain as the vines constricted, squeezed….

“Well, well. And who have we got here?” Robin strained to lift his head, choking a little as a thick, sturdy vine pressed against his Adam’s apple. The voluptuous silhouette of Pamela Isley, a.k.a. Poison Ivy, stood framed in the open doorway of the greenhouse, dimly backlit by Gotham’s city lights. Ivy shifted her weight, lifted an arm, and Robin blinked and squinted as the overhead full-spectrum lights snapped on, illuminating fiery hair and a trademark green outfit that was more skin than cloth. “Robin. Of course. That didn’t take you very long. Where’s Batman?” Ivy stepped forward, trailing her fingers amongst leaves and stems that leaned towards her, adoring, as towards the sun.

“Not here?” Ivy smiled. “Flying solo?” She paused, wrapping a hand, affectionate, around the slender trunk of a young fruit tree. A shiver passed among her plants like a breeze, and the vines cocooning Robin slid and shifted over his body, lifting him upright. Green tentacles pulled him forward, passing him from plant to plant, lianas uncurling and falling away as new vines twined around him, replacing them. Robin renewed his struggles; a supple branch studded with long thorns, hard as bone and needle-sharp, fastened itself around his neck and squeezed, pushing through the skin and drawing blood. Robin froze.

Ivy was stepping forward to meet him, head tilted speculatively. “I didn’t see you at Arkham earlier.” She paused and the vines stilled, holding Robin immobile a few feet in front of her. “Look at you. All. Grown. Up,” she said, her voice a husky purr and her eyes traveling over him, hungry, appreciative. Ivy stepped closer, eyes smoldering, reaching up to trail a sharp, green fingernail along the line of his jaw. Her lips parted, then she smiled and turned away.

“You like?” she asked, gesturing to their surroundings, facetious. She glanced at him coyly over her shoulder then turned again, giving him a knowing look as she pulled the Batarangs from his resisting fingers. Ivy stepped away from him once more, dropping the weapons carelessly on the ground. “When you caught me last time,” she continued, “I was experimenting with introducing a few _very_ interesting characteristics in my new cultivars.” She turned to a potted plant, smiling softly as she brushed the tips of her fingers along the length of a stem, a tender caress. “Vocal signaling. Any voice but mine triggers defensive behavior.”

Ivy moved idly through the rows, greeting her plants and checking on irrigation tubing, keeping up her monologue all the while. “It’s a nice greenhouse, don’t you think? State of the art, completely automatic and self-contained. A rain catchment system for irrigation, photovoltaics to power the pumps and timers and lights. The perfect place to keep my babies safe and happy while I was away. And no one ever comes here so– oh!” Ivy reached the end of the greenhouse, noticing the shriveled corpses for the first time. “Looks like someone did.” She clicked her tongue. “Oh well~.”

She lost interest in the bodies immediately, slipping past them to coo over a newly opened flower bud. After a moment she straightened. Narrowing her eyes at the back of Robin’s head, she stalked back over to where he hung restrained. “You’re being very quiet. It’s not like you. Ahh….” A sigh of understanding as she took in the stiletto-sharp thorn threatening his trachea and the way he’d parted his lips just slightly, breathing through his mouth to keep himself from needing to swallow.

Ivy’s lips twisted into an insolent smile. “I like you better this way, I think. Quiet. Immobile. _Well-behaved._ …You can be _such_ a naughty boy sometimes.” Her eyes had gone predatory again, hungry and dangerous. Ivy slid up against him, slipping one hand around behind his shoulders and up, caressing the nape of his neck. With her other hand she reached up to touch his face, brushing the backs of her fingers down his cheek and pulling the pad of her thumb across his lower lip. Ivy laughed to see the pulse in his neck quicken. “What _shall_ I do with you, hmmm? Boy Wonder? Excuse me, _Teen_ Wonder. …Not really a boy anymore, are you?” she purred. Another shiver passed through her plants, and with a soft, whispering slither the vines and brambles slid away from Robin’s chest and throat, although they remained wrapped tightly around his limbs.

Robin swallowed and took a few gasping breaths. “Isley–”

“Shhhhh.” Ivy pressed a finger to his lips then trailed it lazily downwards, down his throat, his chest, his stomach….

Robin flexed his fingers. “Dr. Isley,” he said again. “Pamela. Give yourself up. If you come peacefully I promise I’ll see to it that your plants aren’t killed.”

Ivy’s face twisted, and in a flash her hand was at his throat. “Insolent creature!” she hissed. “As if you’re the one in control! You and the Bat think you own this town! _You don’t own this town!_ ” Her hand tightened, squeezed, and Robin choked.

There was a high-pitched crash of breaking glass as one of the roof panels shattered, and a Batarang buried itself in the side of a plastic pot, spilling dirt. It was immediately followed by two small, cylindrical canisters that bounced once on the greenhouse’s concrete floor, clinking, before releasing explosions of rust-orange gas. On contact with the gas Ivy’s plants writhed violently with agonized, silent screams. Ivy’s face pinched and crumpled as if the pain were her own, and a tortured cry tore itself from her throat. “ _ **Nooo!!**_ ” Her grip on Robin’s throat loosened, and he coughed and gasped, trying to fill his lungs with clean air before the cloud of herbicide enveloped them.

Another roof-pane exploded inwards, and this time the rain of glass was accompanied by the black armor and swirling cloak of the Batman. He landed swinging, a sharp, machete-like blade in each hand, fending off a swarm of furious, clutching vines. Triggers in the handles released sprays of concentrated herbicide. Batman fought his way towards his captured partner. “ **Isley!! Let him go!!** ”

“My babies,” Ivy moaned, then collapsed into a fit of coughing, sticky, sap-green tears oozing from the corners of her eyes. She shot Batman a furious, hateful look. Reaching up to grab a fistful of Robin’s hair, she yanked his lips harshly down to meet hers. Then she fled towards the back door.

The poisoned plants sagged, losing their strength in the orange haze, and Robin collapsed to the ground. Gloved fingers clawed at his throat and he choked, frothy saliva flecking his lips.

Batman sliced through the last of the weakening vines. “ **Robin!!** ” Sparing barely a glance for Poison Ivy, Batman dropped to his knees where his partner writhed and wheezed on the ground, hastily injecting Robin with a syringe from his utility belt.

Within seconds Robin’s breathing eased significantly, but his skin was pale and clammy, and his limbs were sapped of strength. Lifting the young man’s body with a grunt, Batman turned and tread swiftly for the door. Green tendrils, feebly twitching, were crushed beneath his boot heels.

Batman didn’t lift his gaze from his partner’s ashen face as he crossed the roof. There was no point in looking for Poison Ivy. She was long gone.

~ ~ ~

 _Weak. Not quite incapacitated, but almost. Burning in trachea and lungs. Bruising of the throat. Pinching, itching, and tenderness of the skin… multiple incisions, superficial. No mask on my face. I’m in a bed. A bed in a room. There’s someone in the room._ “Bruce?” _Bruce. Bruce is safe. This room is safe. I’m safe. I. Dick Grayson. Robin. I was unconscious. I went up against Poison Ivy. She poisoned me._

Dick opened his eyes a crack. He was in his own bed in his room in Wayne Manor. Daylight came in through a gap in the window curtains. Bruce was seated in a chair in a dark corner, elbows resting on his knees, fingers clasped, thumbs steepled and pressed against his lips. He wore a stormy and troubled expression.

“Bruce?”

Bruce said nothing. The stony look in his eyes didn’t change.

Dick drifted into blackness again.

~ ~ ~

The next time Dick awoke it was dark out, Bruce was gone, and Alfred was just opening Dick’s bedroom door to check on him. “Hey Alfie,” Dick said hoarsely, and coughed a little. He opened his eyes.

“Master Richard!” The old butler blinked in mild astonishment. Then the lines around his eyes crinkled with pleasure and he slipped into the room. “How are you feeling?” he asked with grave fondness.

Dick took stock. “Considering I’ve had a make-out session with Poison Ivy… I’ve had worse!” He grinned, suppressing a cough.

Alfred went about checking Dick’s pulse and temperature. “Perhaps, Master Richard, but you _were_ in fairly serious condition. …Glass of water, sir?” He reached for the tall glass sitting on the end table next to the bed.

“Yeah, thanks Alfie,” Dick said, pushing himself gingerly up against the pillows and reaching for the cool glass. He took long, grateful swallows, soothing his herbicide-burned throat. “…Where’s Bruce?” he asked, his eyes sliding towards a clock. 8:32.

“Master Bruce is out with Miss Gordon, trying to track down Poison Ivy,” Alfred replied.

Dick raised his eyebrows. “Babs? I thought she was out of town.”

“She was,” said Alfred. “Master Bruce called her back early. …Can I bring you something to eat, sir? Some chicken soup, perhaps?”

Dick grinned, shoving back the heavy blankets covering him. He’d been dressed in flannel pajamas, and he was much too _hot_. “Absolutely I want some of your chicken soup! But I’ll eat it in the kitchen.” He slid his legs over the side of the bed.

“Are you quite sure that’s wise, sir?” Alfred’s disapproving frown indicated that he, clearly, didn’t think so.

“Yeah, probably,” Dick replied cheerfully. Getting his feet under him, he stood up– _carefully_. “Ugh,” he said, swaying unsteadily on his feet and making a face. “I feel like I went to a bar with a hundred-degree fever, drank myself sick, and threw myself through a window.” He caught the expression on the butler’s face. “Don’t _worry_ , Alfred, I promise I’ll take it easy. I just… don’t want to be in a bed anymore.”

Alfred breathed a long-suffering sigh of resignation and fetched Dick’s dressing gown, helping him into it. “I suppose I should count my blessings that you’re not trying to go out on patrol,” he said.

“Patrol? Heck no. I want soup!”

~ ~ ~

Dick waited for Bruce. He sat still and rested as much as possible, reading. Once in a while he got up and shuffled around the manor. He made his way carefully down to the Batcave, reviewed almost a week’s worth of Bruce’s reports from the days he’d missed while he was with the Titans, and made his way carefully back up again. He ate two more bowls of Alfred’s soup, and drank three cups of tea with honey and a tall glass of orange juice.

Around 4:30 in the morning Dick began to have difficulty keeping his eyes open. Bruce wasn’t back yet. Dick went to bed.

When he woke up for the third time it was early afternoon. Dick still felt a bit lightheaded, but otherwise most of the weakness had left him. Wayne Manor was dead quiet. A brief investigation found Alfred taking one of his catnaps; Bruce was nowhere to be seen.

Matching the solemn silence of the manor, Dick quietly showered and dressed. He went downstairs and quietly made and ate a sandwich. Then he headed down to the Cave to look for Bruce.

Bruce was there, at the Batcomputer. He wasn’t wearing the Suit, not yet, not this early in the day, but he had that particular set to his shoulders that he always did when he was Working, a certain posture never seen in the spine of Brucie Wayne. It was impossible that he hadn’t heard Dick’s approach, but he didn’t pause in his typing or turn around. Dick shoved his hands in his pockets and waited for Bruce to finish whatever it was he was working on– probably writing a new search algorithm– and acknowledge his presence.

After a minute Bruce tapped a key with a sense of finality and swiveled to face Dick. His face bore the same stony, cold expression it had the day before in Dick’s bedroom. He didn’t speak.

Dick fought the urge to fidget under Bruce’s formidable gaze. “Ivy?” he inquired.

“Still at large.”

Dick winced. Bruce’s voice was a growl to match his expression, dark and thunderous. He was angry. “She looked like she was suffering pretty badly. The herbicide wouldn’t have….” Dick trailed off, worrying his lip.

“Not at that concentration.”

Dick nodded, feeling stupid. Of course Bruce knew what he was doing.

There were a few moments of tense silence, then… “We need to talk,” Bruce pronounced ominously. He tapped a couple of keys; a small window popped up on the Batcomputer’s screen reading ‘SECURITY: LEVEL ONE LOCKDOWN’, ensuring that Alfred would be unable to interrupt.

Looking back, Dick should have taken that as a clue to what was coming.

Dick sighed, his shoulders slumping a little. “I know, I’m sorry, I messed up,” he said. “I let Ivy grab me, and because of that she got away. I should’ve called for backup.”

“That doesn’t even **begin** to cover it!!” Bruce shouted. Dick’s eyes widened. Okay, he was _really_ angry. “You weren’t there at Arkham and Isley **escaped** –!”

Dick tried to cut in. “Our intel said 3:15–!”

“Situations in the field are _changeable_ , Dick, you know that! You promised me you’d be back by sundown–!”

“Right, Bruce, situations in the field _are_ changeable! The Titans and I ran into a little extra trouble, there was nothing I could do about it! But we put Brother Blood away for good– which is, by the way, actually kind of a big deal–”

Bruce shoved himself up from the chair. “ **You swore an oath to _me_!!** You’re supposed to be my _partner_ , but you’re never around! This isn’t the first time you’ve dropped the ball. …I can’t depend on you, Dick.”

Dick foundered, shocked and hurt. “Bruce–”

“You were _late_ , you weren’t there when I needed you, you didn’t call for backup, and you weren’t _prepared_! You went into the field against an _extremely_ dangerous opponent without _any_ of the proper equipment! No herbicide, no antitoxin, not even _nasal filters_ – Dick, those are supposed to be _standard issue_ –!”

“My last set was contaminated earlier in the day, I was gonna come here first and stock up on all of that, but–”

“But you were _late_. …You were _sloppy_ , Dick, you went into this mission half-cocked! And because of it, Pamela Isley got away– again!– and you very nearly got yourself **killed**!” Bruce slammed his fist against the console, cracking the casing. “ **Unacceptable!!** ”

Dick swallowed. “I… shit. Bruce, I’m _sorry_ –”

“No, you’re not. You’re _done_.”

“…What?” Dick frowned.

“You heard me.” Bruce’s face was a granite mask, his voice just as cold.

Dick spluttered. “You’re _firing_ me?! …Bruce, wait, listen–”

“There’s nothing to discuss.” Bruce crossed his arms. “Now _get out of my Cave_.”

Dick gaped at Bruce in shock. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He took a step back, not to leave but to distance himself from the situation, give himself time and space to _think_.

Then…

“ _And leave the Robin costume._ ”

It was the last straw. Dick’s face twisted as hot anger replaced cold shock. “ _Fine!!_ ” he snarled, clenching his fists. “If that’s the way you want it Bruce, then yes, I’m done. I’m _done_ with you!” He spun on his heel and stalked up the long, stone staircase to the Batcave’s main entrance… which wouldn’t open. Dick threw his fist against the door in frustration. “ **Bruce–!!** ” There was a soft chime as Bruce disengaged the lockdown.

Dick shoved the door open, coming face to face with Alfred, who was holding a battle axe and looked like he’d been about to use it to smash through the ancient grandfather clock that disguised the door to the Cave. “Master Richard! Is everything alright–?!” Dick pushed past Alfred roughly.

“…No. No, it’s not.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim settles for stalking the Batman, and gets a lot more than he bargained for.

The need to go out at night, to see Dick, is constant. The feeling it gives me to catch even a glimpse is vital, like oxygen. But a glimpse is all I ever get, there and gone. Used to be, all I could hold onto was the memory. That was never enough.

My visual memory is exceptional, but the picture in my mind is never as satisfying as reality. Some of the sharpness is always lost, corrupted.

The camera was a revelation.

It has taken a lot of work to perfect the technique. My subject is always distant, usually in motion; the lighting is never good. But I have a tripod, and high-speed film, and the _best_ camera money can buy, and with hundreds of hours of practice I navigate F-stops and shutter speeds without thought. Through the telephoto lens I can be closer to Dick than I ever could before, and each moment I capture is perfectly preserved, sharp and clear. I can revisit each one again, and again, and again....

It's almost as good as the real thing.

~ ~ ~

Wednesday night was... nothing I could have expected. So much more than I am usually given. The memory feels like dreaming. I need to go to my darkroom. I need the photographs, the solid proof that it was real.

I will have the photographs. And I have something else.

I went out that night only hoping to find Batman. I knew that Dick was in New York with the Titans. Sometimes on weekends I follow him, but more and more he is gone on weekdays as well.

Seeing Batman is not as good as seeing Dick, but finding him is good practice, and there is always the potential of being given more secrets. New secrets.

The best method of finding Batman is to find the Batmobile. Hiding places are infinite for a man of his skill and training, dressed in a suit designed to disappear in darkness. Places to conceal a large vehicle are finite. That night I was lucky. After checking only a few of the usual spots in town, I took a late bus to the outskirts of Gotham and biked from there to Arkham Asylum. I found the Batmobile in one of a few places Batman had used before when visiting the inmates, this one an old, abandoned farm with a crumbling barn and stables that blocked the lines of sight from the road.

I stuck to the cover of the densest brush and trees, keeping the Batmobile between myself and Arkham. Rolling my bicycle into an overgrown ditch, I climbed into a large oak, a spot I had used before; its limbs were thick with moss and young ferns, providing good cover even this early in the season, before the tree's leaves filled in. I pulled my camera from my backpack and chose a position I could stay in for hours, unmoving. And I waited.

Time passed. I heard a distant noise from the direction of Arkham: roaring voices, low booms, gunfire. The light on the horizon magnified: searchlights, and fire. I flicked my eyes up to the sky; I had been in the tree an hour and a half.

Approximately thirty minutes passed. I blinked and he was there. Somehow, although the moon was nearly full and I had been _watching_ , Batman had emerged from the dense tangle of an orchard and come several meters into the open meadow without my noticing. I smiled.

Bruce does it every time. He has a smoothness of motion I aspire to.

Smoothly and without haste I moved my camera to my face and my eye to the viewfinder. I didn't move anything else. I controlled my breathing and heart rate as I'd learned to do in riflery practices; there was no room for a tripod in the tree, and I needed steady hands.

I snapped a few shots. Batman is good photography practice, too. I stopped when he started to speak, watching him closely through the telephoto lens.

 _Robin,_ he said first. Against my will, my heartbeat sped up. I concentrated on his moving lips. Pamela Isley had escaped from Arkham. More importantly, Dick was coming back to Gotham, or had already arrived. _And then Batman told me where he would be._

I waited for Batman to clear the scene. The moment the Batmobile was gone I dropped from the tree, running to get my bicycle. Would I make it in time to see Dick? I was on the correct end of the city; Washington Street wasn't very far away. I figured I could get there in twenty-five minutes if I sprinted the whole way.

I made it there in twenty-three.

I stopped a few blocks away and considered my options. There was no sign of Dick. The building to the north of 1145 Washington was taller, a narrow alley separating the two. That was where Dick would go. Across the street was a Gothic church: a cluster of roofs at different heights, excellent cover, bell tower approximately even with 1145's roof. That was where I wanted to be.

I cut across one block to the next street, keeping a row of buildings between myself and where I hoped Dick would be. Leaving my bicycle behind the church, I picked out a route to the bell tower, watching for Dick as I climbed. In the bell tower I wedged myself into a corner, assembling my tripod by feel as I scanned rooftops.

I missed Dick's arrival. I glanced at the edge of the building where I thought he would be and saw nothing; ten seconds later I looked again and Dick was there. Not there and gone, but sitting still, focused and alert, and so _close_.

Heat coiled in my gut, sending shocks to my nerve endings; my heart stuttered and my vision went momentarily black. My hands moved automatically, turning the camera, adjusting the focus. The shutter clicked and clicked again. I remembered to breathe.

Dick stood. (Click.) He flew, glorious, graceful. Teeth in my lip kept in the small noise that tried to escape my throat. He landed rolling on 1145's roof and crouched, waiting. Hidden from the greenhouse but not from me. (Click. Click.) He moved towards the greenhouse, sliding from shadow to shadow. (Click. Click. Click.)

Dick entered the greenhouse, leaving the door open behind him. This was little help to me; inside it was too dark for my camera. Dick disappeared into the black. I watched through the telephoto lens, and held my breath, and waited.

A body blocked my view. I pulled back from the viewfinder, squinted to see – _Pamela Isley_. (Click.) She stood in the doorway. The lights came on. She blocked my view of the interior.

After four seconds Isley stepped forward – and I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. Dick had been captured by Isley's plants. He hung suspended, spread-eagled, his arms and legs pulled wide from his tightly-wrapped torso. He was in trouble, he needed help, he was immobilized, entirely at Isley's mercy. And he was _beautiful_.

My heart pounded and my brain buzzed. I was panicked, frozen in indecision. I knew Batman was coming, but would he get there in time? My brain screamed that I should help Dick, but my body would not move. And all the while the camera's shutter clicked, and clicked, and clicked.

At first Isley only talked. Then the bitch put her hands on him, as if Dick were hers to touch. I shook and burned, and still I couldn't leave my camera. She had her hand at his throat, and too late I jumped to my feet.

But Batman had arrived. And it seems that fate led me to the right choice. Because while Batman helped Dick, the bitch Isley escaped.

And I saw.

She was coughing, retching, crying, and fell more than ran down the fire escape. She crossed the street, disappearing into an alley half a block up the street from my church.

I looked at the greenhouse. The orange clouds of herbicide were dissipating. Bruce was carrying Dick. Dick was hurt.

I moved. I left my camera and ran, jumping down each tier of steep, slanted roofs, making for the ground behind the church. I hit the ground, rolled, and was running again. I jumped onto my bicycle but pulled up sharp when I reached the street, craning my neck to see without being seen.

Isley had left the alley, crossed the street, and was just entering a second alley a block away from me. The bitch had a head start, but she was slow, stumbling. I was faster.

I followed her that way for several blocks: watch and wait until she was out of sight between the buildings, then sprint to catch up. Always keeping a block between us. Until I came out of an alley and looked into the street, and _Isley wasn't there_. I sprinted another block in the direction she had been headed, just in case.

Nothing.

I was immobilized, for a few seconds, at the thought that I might have lost her. I made myself think. If Isley was still on the move I had to act immediately, and my best guess had to be correct or she would be gone. I left my bicycle behind a dumpster (on foot is less conspicuous) and investigated the alleys she could still be in if she had stopped. Isley was sick, she might have collapsed. But I found nothing.

I stood where she had to have emerged from the last alley I had seen her enter. I looked at the buildings around me; it was possible that Isley had entered one of them. I hoped she had. I was surrounded by apartments; if she was there, it was likely that she _lived_ there.

First things first. I asked myself, which building would she have gone into? They all looked the same: subsidized housing, hundreds of apartments in each. Searching each one would be risky, and an investment of time and effort I would prefer not to make.

I flipped the hood of my sweatshirt up, stepping out onto the street. To anyone watching I would be 'just some kid'. I might as well have been invisible. I put my hands in my pockets and strolled, watching for any sign Isley might have left. And fate provided. Something wet glimmered on a concrete step, reflecting the streetlights. I investigated. It was a thick, viscous puddle. It was green. I curled my lip; Isley had been sick.

Stepping up to the front door of the building, I reviewed the tenant directory. One label had been recently replaced: Aspen Hurst, 526. A grove of aspen trees, an obvious pseudonym. But I needed confirmation.

I pressed my face against the reinforced glass, looking in. Posted on the wall next to the elevator was an emergency floor plan of the building. I picked the lock and let myself in; according to the map, Aspen Hurst's apartment would be on the other side of the building.

Behind the building, I counted the windows on the fifth floor. A light was on in 526. Across the street, a fire escape emptied into an alley. I climbed five stories and turned my binoculars on Aspen Hurst's window.

For several minutes I saw nothing. Then, movement: Pamela Isley stumbled into the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter and dry-heaving into the sink. My lips pulled away from my teeth. I had found her. The bitch was _mine_.

I watched for two hours to see if she would go anywhere. Isley went to sleep. Apartment 526 was her home. She felt safe there. I knew she would be staying.

Before I left the scene I siphoned some gasoline from a parked car and set fire to Isley's sick. (A man yelled at me. I let him think he chased me off.) I didn't want to leave any evidence for someone else to find. Then I retrieved my bicycle and my camera and returned to my room at the Lawrence Benedict School for Boys.

I was not able to sleep for a long time. When I did sleep I dreamed of Dick.

~ ~ ~

I know where Pamela Isley sleeps. That secret was given to me. It is mine. No one else knows.

I do not know what to do with this secret. That bitch put her hands on Dick. She hurt him. She needs to be punished.

I do not know what I will do. Maybe I will tip off Jim Gordon so he can tell Batman.

Maybe I won't.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick bitches about Bruce; Babs listens.

“...And that was it, he fired me, just like that. No warning, no discussion, just, ' _Get out of my cave. And leave the Robin costume._ '”

Dick was sprawled on his back on the bed in Barbara Gordon's apartment, scowling at the ceiling, one hand tucked behind his head and the other gesturing animatedly as he spoke. Barbara sat on the other side of the bed, arms wrapped around her knees, biting her lip sympathetically as she listened. Outside Barbara's window Saturday was sunny, cheerful, and unseasonably warm, a sharp contrast to Dick's stormy mood.

“And that's the part that _really_ pisses me off,” Dick continued, seething. “Robin is _mine_ , not his. It was _never_ his. He had no right! But try telling Bruce that. No, he just does whatever the hell he wants!” Dick let his head flop to the side, turning his exasperated glare on Barbara. “You know, in theory, we're supposed to be partners. That's what _he_ told me, anyway.” He snorted. “...So much for partners. I'm only his partner when it's convenient for him, but whenever he bloody well feels like it suddenly it's, 'Rraaahh, I'm the God-damn Batman, my word is law!!'” Wild gesturing at the ceiling here. “ _You_ know what that's like. I mean, you were supposed to be in Metropolis for that library science conference for another day or two, right? But he just calls you up and expects you to drop everything and come running.” He scowled. “Of course, you _did_ drop everything and come running....”

“Hey,” Barbara said in a warning tone, eyes narrowing slightly. She let out a breath and let the sharpness drop from her voice. “...Look, Dick... you were injured, and Ivy was loose. Bruce needed backup, so I came. A library science conference is just not as important as getting Poison Ivy back in her nice padded cell again.”

Dick was making a face that could be described as nothing so much as pouting, but after a moment he huffed a sigh and asked, “Any news on Ivy?”

Barbara pressed her lips together, shaking her head. “Nothing. Seems she's gone to ground. ...Don't worry, though. We'll find her.”

“You'd better,” Dick warned sourly. “Bruce doesn't accept failure. If you're not careful, he'll fire you, too.”

Barbara sighed. “Dick... look, I sympathize with you, I really do. That was a shitty thing he did. But what we do, the impacts and consequences... it's bigger than me and you and him. I need to be able to work with him. So... I'm not going to pick a side.”

 _Which actually means you're choosing his,_ Dick thought, but he knew that was unfair. So what he said was, “I'm not asking you to.” He blew a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. “I just– it was completely out of the blue. I wish I'd had some _warning_ – did you _know_?”

“No. I didn't know he was going to fire you. I knew he was angry, but... when isn't he, right?” The corner of Barbara's mouth twitched a little, a fleeting half smile. “...You know... this isn't the first time he's fired you. He'll come around. He was probably more concerned about your safety than anything. Maybe if you talked to him...?”

“If he's concerned about me he should learn to say so like a normal human being instead of just freaking out all the time! And no, no, I'm not going to talk to him, I am _not_ fixing this for him. Why should I have to be the one to play nice?”

Barbara resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. _They are so unlike each other in almost every way. Why did they have to pick 'stubborn as a mule' as the one thing to have in common?_

“Anyway, even if he changes his mind I'm not sure I _want_ to work with him anymore. I am so _sick_ of his crap, Babs!”

Silence reigned for a few moments. Barbara chewed on her lip. “...How are things at the manor?” she asked.

Dick sighed. “I need to get out of there,” he said. “We've been avoiding each other. It's easy to do, I mean, the house is _huge_ and his schedule is predictable. But it can't go on forever... and it's really not fair for Alfred to be stuck in the middle like that. I need to move out.”

“And go where?”

Another sigh. “Not sure. The Titans told me I'm welcome to stay in the Tower, of course, but... I'm taking some time off from the team while I figure all this out, and I'd feel weird staying there when I'm not on the active duty roster. And then, Kory's offered to let me stay at her apartment....” He shrugged

Barbara arched a sardonic eyebrow at him. “Your ex wants you to stay with her? ...You sure that's a good idea?”

Dick frowned a little. “She's one of my best friends, Babs. Best friend trumps ex. Kory and I are fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Barbara's tone was flatly skeptical.

Dick's frown became speculative, and he turned to look at Barbara; she glanced away. Dick's lip twitched. “ _Yeah_ , 'uh-huh'. FYI, the breakup was _totally_ congenial. I think we only got together in the first place because we were such good friends and we loved each other, and we felt we owed it to ourselves to try. I figure we're better off as friends. ... _And_ , Kory agrees!” he added before Barbara could say anything.

Barbara put her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. If you say so.”

“I do.”

There was a moment of silence, then Barbara cleared her throat. “Well anyway, if it comes down to it... you're welcome to my couch whenever you like, for as long as you like.”

Dick grinned at her. “Oh, your dad would _love_ that!”

“It's not Dad's decision, and he doesn't need to know about it,” Barbara returned coolly.

Dick's smile softened. “...Thanks, Babs. I appreciate it.”

Barbara smiled softly back. “Of course.” Barbara dropped her eyes and they fell into a companionable silence, Dick waggling his feet idly and Barbara picking at a frayed edge on her quilt. “So...” she said quietly after a couple of minutes, “...what are you going to do?”

Dick chewed at the inside of his lip. “I don't know,” he admitted. “I don't know what to do. I'm not sure if I want to keep _doing_ this, you know, going out at night and punching bad guys, but... I'm not sure I could really do anything else. So... I don't know.” He sighed. “...I don't know.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim thinks a lot (a lot) about things that upset him. Tim indulges in a couple of his favorite hobbies in an effort to relax. Upon further reflection, Tim has a Really Great Idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timmy calls everyone he doesn't actively hate with the wrath of God by their first names. Mrs. McIlvaine doesn't _have_ a first name, as far as I've been able to find. So I gave her one. Also, can I please crawl out of my skin now?
> 
> Warning: this chapter contains discussion of sexual behavior in a twelve-year-old, in a roundabout sort of way.

I touch a button on my music player and a bow drags over cello strings. I close my eyes and visualize the intended outcome; I open them and pull the scalpel across preserved flesh, splitting the skin. I must be careful not to cut too deeply. This cat will be an example for my classmates, a display of the major muscle groups. I don't want to damage the muscular tissue.

It is Sunday. I am alone apart from John Macy, who is sitting at the big stone slab table at the front of the classroom, grading papers. He teaches my advanced biology course. I am his favorite student. My exposure of the dogfish shark brain and major nerves was better than the one sent by the laboratory supply company. He gave me a glass container and asked me to label and preserve it for his students to refer to in the future. He tells me I will go far in any biology-related career I choose.

I am his favorite student, so he lets me practice my dissections whenever I want, on weekends and at lunch breaks and after class, leaves before I do most afternoons and gives me the keys so I can lock up when I'm done. I am his favorite student, so he forgave me when I made my eyes round and apologized for putting away the preserving fluid sloppily on Friday, so that some of the containers tipped and fell and broke and spilled preservative down the drain. (I told him a lie.)

Cutting the lifeless bodies, opening them up to expose what is inside is a soothing exercise, like meditation. It grounds me. It reaffirms an underlying Truth of the world. Different cats can have different skin, different hair, different eyes. They can be big or little, fat or thin. They can be lazy or friendly or mean. But when they lie dead and open in front of me and I can see all the little pieces and how they fit together, they are all pretty much the same.

And so it is with other animals, and people. The Truth is, they are all the same on the inside.

I find that interesting.

(What is it, then, if they are all the same, what is it that makes some creatures better than others in life, stronger, more beautiful? It is Fate.)

I am grounded in the order, the logic, the sameness of it all, and so I am free to think. I have a lot to think about.

~ ~ ~

Dick left Gotham City this morning. He did not go to New York. He did not tell anyone where he was going. (He has gone to Haley's Circus, of course. This is obvious. Where else would he go?)

Dick left because Batman fired him. Batman fired Robin. Fired him. He fired him.

This made me very angry.

But I thought about it. I thought for a long time. (I didn't sleep.) And I understand. I understand Bruce. Isley hurt Dick. (That _bitch_. Never again.) I know Bruce cares for Dick. He was scared. He was trying to protect Dick. He was wrong, but he wasn't trying to hurt Dick. I am angry, but I understand.

Batman needs Robin. Bruce will realize his mistake. He will want Dick to come back.

I am worried that Dick will not want to come back.

That is what upsets me most of all. Dick will come back to Gotham, I know he will. Gotham is in his blood, in his brain, under his skin. But if Dick does not come back as _Robin_... that's just– it's just---

That can't be allowed to happen. Robin is Dick's _destiny_. He can't just be ordinary. It is his Fate to be great, special, brilliant, amazing. He needs to be Robin. If he doesn't want to be Robin anymore... no. That just can't happen.

I am very upset about this.

~ ~ ~

I feel an itching underneath my skin. I need... I need something to make me feel better. No point in going out tonight. Dick's not there, and I don't want to see Batman right now.

I will go to my darkroom instead. I have not yet developed my photographs from Wednesday. I have been much too busy.

It is well past midnight and my parents' house is dark. My parents are not home. Dorothy McIlvaine, the current housekeeper, is asleep. No one will know I have been here. There will be no interruptions.

I avoid the locked front gate. (The security system logs keypad access.) I scale the fence instead. When I reach the house, though, I let myself in the front door with my key, deactivate the burglar alarm, and head for the center of the house and the stairway behind the kitchen leading down to the basement. I don't turn on any lights. I don't need them, not for this.

I pass rows of my parents' bottles of wine and the walk-in freezer Dorothy keeps well stocked. The southeast corner is mine. My special place, where my mom and my dad and Dorothy don't go, wouldn't go. They know better.

I keep a lock on the door, just in case. My fingers find the numbers in the dark, clicking the dials into the right combination. My heart is starting to beat faster.

I pull the door open, close it behind me, make my way through the serpentine light trap and into my darkroom. The smell of the developing chemicals permeates the air. It hits me like it always does, straight to the back of my spine. I feel hot; my breath comes short; it becomes difficult for me to walk.

On the east side of the room is another door; I move quickly toward it in the utter blackness– there is nothing to trip over. Everything is in its place.

The door closes behind me, and I pull the blackout curtains across it out of habit. Then, with some difficulty (my hands are shaking) I switch on the light. I don't see the film developing equipment, or the small animals in jars of preserving fluid. All I see is Dick.

This room is where I keep the photographs of Dick, the ones I have taken and the newspaper clippings. There are dozens of images of Dick on the walls: Dick standing on the edge of a roof, Dick swinging, Dick and Bruce in civilian clothes at Dick's favorite café.

This is necessary. I do this every time I come into my darkroom, and sometimes again before I leave. I trail my hand along the wall as I walk around the room, brushing my fingertips across the edges of the photographs until I find the one I want and carefully remove it from where it's pinned to the wall by brass tacks. (Held at the edges by the heads of the tacks, not the stems; I would never put _holes_ in my prints.)

The one I want tonight I took from a boathouse on the river near the New Trigate Bridge. Dick is standing where a suspension cable is anchored, one hand resting against the steel tower. His face is impassive as he looks down at the people below him on the bridge. I am reminded of my memory of Dick standing on the platform at the top of the circus tent, looking down on the dead bodies of his parents, looking down on the audience in the bleachers.

I take the photograph to my chair and sit. This is why the camera was such a revelation. I can choose from dozens of images, preserved memories, Dick captured perfectly in each one. Perfect, beautiful, eternal. I can see him for as long as I want. I can _touch_ him. I sit in my chair and hold the photograph of Dick in my left hand and I _look_.

I look and look, taking in every detail. I can almost see Dick's cape whipping in the breeze, and the chemicals heavy in the air make me dizzy, make my head spin, the teeth in my lip my only anchor, and Dick's image is burned onto my retinas so when I can't help it and my eyes fall closed I can still see him clear and beautiful as with eyes open until I'm full, too full and I spill over and everything goes white and for two seconds I don't see anything at all.

I keep my eyes closed and just breathe for a little until the rush sinks down to a low hum, a slight tingling in my arteries and veins, and then I clean myself up and put the photograph away and get to work.

My body moves automatically, comfortable in a routine repeated more times than I can remember, filling the sink and bringing the temperature to 20º C, setting the jugs of chemicals to float in the water bath, switching the lights off and cracking open a film canister. As I work my mind goes back to those two images of Dick. The memory that is a photograph on my wall, of Robin on the bridge. The memory in my head of Dick in the circus tent. Looking down.

Dick is so far above everyone, special. How could he want to give that up? Dick was great; Fate forged him into something exquisite. Through sacrifice, through death, Dick became something _better_. How can he turn his back on that?

Is Dick's destiny really so tenuous? Is a fight with Bruce all it takes to shake him from his path? I do not want to believe it, but... why not? All it took to start him on that path was two dead bodies, two crumpled, broken bodies– spotlight, chalk dust, blood. That was all it took. Such a little thing. Such a little thing....

I stop, suddenly; the lights are on and my film is in the developing tank and I'm checking the temperature of my chemicals and I stop what I am doing and think. Just think.

...That is the key, isn't it? Death. The death of Dick's parents was the catalyst that changed him, that raised him up. All he needed then was Batman's guidance and teachings. Dick doesn't need that anymore. All he needs is the catalyst. All he needs is the reminder of who he is.

Suddenly everything makes sense. Dick, me, the circus, Robin, the fight with Bruce, the wheels of Fate turning and turning until everything falls into place here and now with this realization: I can do it.

 _I can be the catalyst._

This is what it's all been for. The thrill of it rushes through me and I return to work with shaky hands. I sweat and tremble and ache. (I will have to sit with one of my photographs again when I am done here.) I think and think about what I can do for Dick. The truth of it is just too beautiful.

Dick needs me. And only I can help.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick comes to a decision about what to do with his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: discussion of death, some naughty language. No spoilers for anything more recent than the 1980s.

Alfred Pennyworth was doing some afternoon dusting in Wayne Manor's decadent foyer when there was a loud knocking at the front door. For a moment he was frozen in place, frowning disconcertedly. No one should be knocking at the front door of Wayne Manor, unless they were buzzed through the gate first.

Alfred straightened, shifting his grip on his feather duster so that it was more like a weapon and palming his panic button, the little transmitter he kept in his pocket at all times that would bring Master Bruce up from the Batcave if pressed. Then he walked gravely to the great double doors, laid a hand on the latch, and pulled the door open a crack.

Visible through the narrow gap was the grinning face of one Richard Grayson. “Hey, Alfie~.”

The feather duster dropped with a clatter. “My word! Master Richard!” Alfred pulled the door wide open.

Dick laughed, throwing himself at the astonished valet. Alfred found Dick's lean, muscular arms wrapped tightly around him, rumpling his suit. “Ohhhh, Alfred, it's so good to _see_ you!”

Alfred's face creased into a fond smile and he returned the hug just as warmly, if more gently and with more regard for the sanctity of the other man's neatly pressed (although not so neatly pressed as they _should_ be) clothes. “Honestly, Master Richard,” he said, and he tried to sound stern, “knocking at the front _door_?”

Dick pulled back, laughing again. “I jumped the fence,” he admitted. “I wanted to surprise you!”

“Well, young sir, if surprise was the objective, you've mostly certainly achieved it,” Alfred sniffed, straightening his jacket. He picked up the feather duster and stood to one side. “Would you care to come _in_ , sir?”

Grinning, Dick shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped into the foyer. Once the door was closed behind him, however, his grin faltered. “...Bruce?”

“In the Batcave,” Alfred informed him. Dick nodded. “Master Dick,” Alfred began, more softly, “dare I ask where you've _been_ all this time? You've been gone the better part of a year.”

“I went back to the circus. Turned out Mr. Haly needed another aerialist, so... I stuck around for a while.”

“I suppose there was no way you could have said something, or called,” Alfred commented dryly, giving him a pointed look.

Dick shrugged a little, his lips twisting into an apologetic smile. “I... needed to take some time. For me, you know? I'm sorry to make you worry. Did you seriously not know where I was, though? ...Bruce couldn't have been looking very hard.” And there was an edge to his voice and in his eyes, something hard and bitter.

Alfred smothered a sigh. “Master Bruce figured that if you wanted to be found you would've left a note.”

Dick snorted. “Yeah, well, he's right about that.”

Alfred's lips thinned slightly. If only his boys weren't so damnably stubborn.... “Well,” he said, “I for one am delighted to see you back safe and sound. And... will you be staying...?”

“Yes and no, Alfred, yes and no.” Dick bit his lip. “We could talk in the kitchen...?”

“Of course, Master Dick. And would you like me to prepare some hot chocolate?”

Dick beamed. “Alfie, you read my mind~!”

~ ~ ~

The Batcave hadn't changed. Dick put his hands in his pockets and closed his eyes and just stood at the top of the hewn stone steps for a few minutes, listening, smelling, tasting, feeling. The cave air was cool and humid, carrying just a hint of damp, moldy smell and the faint, acrid tang of guano that no amount of cleaning or ventilation could quite manage to banish completely. He could hear the drip of water, the occasional quiet chirp of a sleepy bat, the low hum of electronics and, just barely, the sound of typing.

He wasn't stalling. He just needed a moment to take it all in.

Dick took a breath, opened his eyes, and made his way down the stairs. Bruce was working at the Batcomputer in his civvies, as he frequently was this time of day, as he had been the last time Dick had been in the Cave. _Nothing's changed,_ Dick thought.

Like the last time (like _all_ times), Bruce let Dick stew in silence for a minute while he finished what he was doing. _Nice to see you, too, Bruce._ Dick leaned against the console at what had been officially unofficially _his_ work station. He pulled open a drawer; pens, Post-It pads, highlighters, paperclips, and staplers were scattered in the drawer, messy and haphazard where Bruce's things would be neat and organized. Nothing had been touched or moved in the months he'd been gone.

Bruce was swiveling to face him. They eyed each other for a few moments; then, “Have fun at the circus?”

“You _knew_?”

“It wasn't hard to guess.”

“You knew and it didn't occur to you to tell Alfred.”

“You didn't tell him either,” Bruce pointed out. “I figured if you wanted your whereabouts known—”

“I would've left a note, yeah, I know.” Dick huffed a sigh. He didn't know what he was bothered about. Bruce was right. He was always right.

There was a pause. “You dropped out of school,” Bruce said disapprovingly.

“The things worth learning aren't taught at universities, Bruce.”

Bruce tapped his fingers on the console, twice, and stopped. “Learn anything, then?”

Dick raised his eyebrows. “I think I did, yeah,” he said. Bruce continued to stare impassively at him; Dick turned away and flipped through a stack of case files, suddenly and desperately needing to do something, see something that wasn't Bruce's cold, piercing gaze. He paused, pulled a file from the stack, flipped it open. “I read about this one. Possible serial killer, right? What've you got on him?”

Bruce steepled his fingers. “Two victims identified that fit the pattern. Isaac John Swan, 32, Caucasian male. Veronica Mary Pacer, 34, Caucasian female. No link between the victims. In both cases the victims were killed in their own residence, and the cause of death was a lethal dose of sodium thiopental, administered via injection. The perp removed a body part from each victim: from Isaac Swan, his left ear, and from Veronica Pacer, her right index finger.”

Dick waited a moment then blinked. “ _Seriously_ , Bruce?” he asked incredulously. “That's it? I read as much in the newspaper! Those killings were _months_ ago!”

“I've been busy,” Bruce said, voice hard, frowning. “I haven't had time to look into it.”

“You haven't had _time_ —?!”

“I have bigger problems at the moment,” Bruce growled. “ _For instance_ , Pamela Isley is still unaccounted for.” This with a pointed look. “And _for instance_ , Garfield Lynns just escaped from Arkham. Immediately prior to his escape he made a number of threatening statements pertaining to nearly a dozen buildings in downtown Gotham. The serial murder case is lower priority right now. The police can take care of it.”

Dick crossed his arms, frowning. “...How'd Lynns get out?”

Bruce leaned back in his chair. “Unknown,” he said, “but it is unlikely he could've managed it without outside assistance.”

“He helped Isley to escape, right? Maybe she returned the favor.”

“It's possible.”

Dick chewed on his lip. “...Seriously though, Bruce—”

“ _The police can take care of it._ ”

Dick shook his head. _He needs help. He needs my help and he's too God-damned proud to ask for it._ He sighed. “...Bruce—”

“Why are you here, Dick?” Bruce's voice was cold and sharp, a knife made of ice.

Thunder and shadows flitted across Dick's face and his hands clenched into fists. “I'm moving out,” he announced, biting the ends off each syllable. He pulled open another of the drawers at 'his' workstation, digging through it with sharp, angry motions. “I found an apartment downtown. I came down here to get these.” He held up a Discman, tangled-up headphones, and a small stack of CDs. Dick looked at Bruce, at Bruce's pointed gaze and the slight arch to Bruce's eyebrow. The feeling of being judged was a heavy weight on his shoulders. “Not all of us find research thrilling, okay?”

Bruce's expression darkened. “The research is _necessary_ ,” he growled. “It's an extremely important, if not _the_ most important part of—”

Dick slammed a fist into the console. “I _did_ the work, dammit! I did it well. ...I _did_ my job.”

Dick waited for Bruce to say something, anything, but stoney silence was all Bruce gave him. Dick felt sick, suddenly, felt his face contort to match the twist in his guts. He shook his head. “ _Go to hell, Bruce_ ,” he spat, and, turning his back on Bruce, he stalked up the stairs and out of the Cave.

~ ~ ~

Dick let out a long, slow breath. He was lying on his back on an air mattress on the floor of his new apartment, his arms folded behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. His belongings were scattered around him in boxes and suitcases. He didn't have much; one thing Dick wasn't was a pack rat, a circus habit he'd never quite shaken. He'd needed only the smallest size of U-Moov truck to haul his belongings from the manor and his college stuff from storage. He didn't have any furniture, though; tomorrow's priority would be a trip to AKIA.

 _I'm going to have to get a job,_ he thought mournfully. He could live off of his sizeable trust fund for a good long while, but he didn't want to drain it dry. _A real job. One that will let me stay put, stay in the city so I can—_

He frowned. _...So I can what?_ He couldn't be Robin anymore. Bruce had taken that away from him. And it was clear as water that he wasn't going to be able to work with Bruce. But he had gone home to the circus to figure some things out about himself, and the biggest, most important thing he'd figured out was that he couldn't go back to an ordinary life. Even a circus life. He was a fighter now, for better or for worse. He'd be a fighter until he died. Probably until it killed him.

He needed to get back on the street.

 _Dammit, Bruce, why did you have to take Robin? He wasn't yours to take, and I_ need _him._ Dick slid his hands into his hair and pulled, frowning... then he let go, and his frown smoothed out into something harder, firmer. _No, you know what, Bruce? You can keep Robin, for all the good he does you. I_ don't _need him. I'm not a little boy anymore. I've outgrown him, I've outgrown you. It's time for a change. New costume, new name, new me._

Dick was staring _through_ the ceiling now, fingers tapping against the mattress. Abruptly he shoved himself up, scrambling across the carpet to an open suitcase. Lifting stacks of folded clothes out of the way, he pulled out a garment bag, unzipping it so he could look at the blue costume inside it. He'd worn it during his season with the Haly Circus; it was based on the costume his father had worn, many years before Dick was born.

Dick smiled softly. Bruce had taught him to fight, but long before that it had been his Dad who taught him to fly without fear. It was only fitting.

Setting the costume aside gently, Dick rummaged through a messenger bag, producing a notebook and pen. Then, curled up against the side of the air mattress, he started furiously sketching additions and modifications. He tapped the pen against the notebook while he thought, nodding to himself. “I'm going to need a sewing machine,” he said out loud, and smiled.

~ ~ ~

It was a dark night in Gotham, as dark as it gets. No clouds, no moon, the feeble stars producing insufficient illumination to pierce the city's gloom. Batman slipped through alleyways and side streets, skirting the streetlamps' glowing amber pools, a silent shadow among the shadows of Crime Alley as he headed for the Batmobile.

He'd gotten a lead that a shipping container full of automatic weapons that had gone missing a few days before had ended up in the hands of one 'Sneaky' Joe Marr, operating out of Skidmore across town. Marr was unlikely to make use of the weapons himself, but he _would_ be looking to sell, and soon. Unfortunately, Marr was the careful sort; he moved locations frequently and was notorious for excellent security.

To his irritation, Batman found himself wishing he had Robin with him. The fastest way to find Marr would be through the Y Gang, a gang of kids and teens who made it their business to know _everything_ that happened in the Skidmore District. One of Dick's personas had befriended a member of the gang years ago; he was often able to obtain useful information through that contact.

Batman scowled. He would just have to find Sneaky Joe another way. He'd done just fine before Dick had come along. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe—

Batman rounded a corner, entering the alley where the Batmobile was parked–where the Batmobile sat on cinderblocks, one of its front tires leaning against a nearby dumpster. Batman stood frozen for a moment, staring in shock and stifling an unexpected urge to laugh. _Un. Believable._

By the sounds of things the thief was still at work on the other front tire, hidden from view by the vehicle's bulk. Batman edged silently around the front of the vehicle and looked down on–a kid. Just a red-headed kid, early teens, clearly nothing on him but his clothes and the tire iron he was using. Batman put on his best glower and waited.

After a minute the kid glanced up–and fell over backwards, scrabbling to get away. “Oh, _fuck_!!” Blue eyes wide, he clambered to his feet, clutching the tire iron. Batman took a menacing step forward, and the kid raised the tire iron as if to strike with it. Batman stepped forward again, looming, and the kid seemed to reconsider. He dropped the tire iron with a clang, raising his arms in surrender and offering up a shit-eating grin. “...Oops?”

It took far more effort than it should have for Batman not to smile back.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim spends his Saturday night with broken animals, thoughts of Dick, and Plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: discussion of the following: animal death (in a fair amount of detail), the recreational killing of animals, and the casual infliction of harm on another person. I believe I did mention that _AU!Timmy is not your friend?_ No spoilers for anything more recent than the 1980s.

On Saturday evenings, when my athletics schedule allows, I volunteer at the Bristol Veterinary Hospital. I am the youngest volunteer at the hospital. John Macy wrote me a letter of recommendation. He thinks I want to become a doctor of veterinary medicine. The doctors and technicians here think I want to be a doctor of veterinary medicine.

I don't want to be a doctor of veterinary medicine.

What interests me about this place is not the ways in which you can keep an animal alive. It is the ways in which an animal can die.

Death interests me. It has for a very long time. I remember looking down at an earthworm on a sidewalk on a hot, sunny day, standing carefully so that my shadow did not touch it. I remember the time at my grandmother's house before she was dead when one of her yellow tang jumped out of the tank and I found it on the marble tiles, flopping; I stood and watched as the fish became weak in too much air, as its flopping got slower, smaller, eventually stopped. And the time after that, when I reached in with my hands and caught one, took it from the tank and laid it on the dry tiles so that I could watch that one flop too.

Life is complicated. Death is simple. (And it's permanent. Death is the only thing in this world that is permanent.) So simple, but it changes everything. A heart stops beating and it changes everything. To be the hand that stops the heart is to wield a power that thrills, that is more addicting than anything in my life... except for Dick.

This is why I come to the veterinary hospital. There are so many animals here, so many that are dying or close to death. There are so many ways. Something pierces the skin and blood vessels, something sharp or moving with great force, and the blood pumps out through the tears and holes in the flesh: exsanguination. Or blunt trauma tears the animal on the inside, and it bleeds out into its own body cavity. If the animal does not bleed out, bacterial infection can set in. Microorganisms get into the wound and feed on the proteins and sugars and fats in the animal's body, duplicate and multiply and spread, the infection poisoning as it grows. Or maybe the poison is man-made, ingested by the animal accidentally or fed to it on purpose. Maybe the poison comes from inside: cancer. A mistake, a genetic glitch, dividing cells that keep dividing and spread through the body, choking off healthy function. These and so many other ways, but they all end the same, so simply. The heart stops. The animal dies.

Sometimes, on very special occasions, as a reward when I deserve one or to relieve stress and frustration, I kill one of the animals at the hospital. It doesn't take much–with an animal already close to death, the slightest adjustment to its drip, a quick injection, or pressure on the airway when the doctors and technicians are not looking is enough to make the change.

I have had to be careful, indulging only rarely and only with the most sickly of animals. I cannot allow myself to do it at all now. I am taking drugs from the hospital, occasionally and only in very small amounts. It is not enough that anyone will notice, but too much suspicious activity and sometimes people will start thinking. So I keep my killing away from the hospital, for now.

It is a shame. Yesterday my jujitsu test did not go as well as I would have liked. I passed the test easily, but my performance was not comparable to my personal best. Belts and certificates mean nothing if I do not improve. ...It is frustrating. I could have used the relief. Instead I wash the cages and the soiled laundry and fill the bowls with food and water, and when the technicians need an extra hand I hold the puppy immobile and pinch the vein so the needle can go in.

My school is on its winter break, so at the end of my shift I go to my parents' house. My mom and dad are waiting for me. They flew in from Switzerland early yesterday morning. This is the first I have seen of them since they arrived. Next week they go to Bogotá.

Dorothy has prepared a late supper. We must be pretending to be a family tonight, because we eat it together. Dorothy has made a lasagna. It is acceptable. (The last time we ate together, Dorothy made shepherd's pie. “Your favorite,” she said. Shepherd's pie is not my favorite. Dorothy burned her hand on the stove.)

My mom is saying something. “Where are your fish?” she says.

“We noticed on our credit card bill that you bought a hundred-gallon aquarium last March, but we didn't see it anywhere,” says my dad. “Is it downstairs?”

I look at them, long and unblinking. “It turns out I don't like fish,” I say.

My mom and dad decide they don't want to know about my aquarium. “Great job on the lasagna, Mrs. Mac!” says my dad.

~ ~ ~

Dick came back to Gotham, like I knew he would. I have seen him. He is even going out at night, flying above the streets like he used to, hunting. But he does not hunt with Batman. And he isn't Robin. He is dressed as something else.

 _Nightwing,_ I have seen him say. A more serious name. A more serious costume. He looks older wearing it. The bright red and green and yellow are gone. Now he wears shades of blue.

The new costume is simple. I think Dick made it himself. There is no cape. The suit is one piece, sleeves and leggings fitting snuggly under gloves and boots. A wide collar flares up around his neck and jaw. He still wears a domino mask, but it curves into spikes at the edges. It makes him look mean. He has let his hair grow out longer. He carries escrima.

The new costume covers almost all of his skin. All that is visible is Dick's face, his neck, and below that where his neckline plunges to the middle of his chest. The rest of his body is hidden. Only it isn't hidden at all. The suit clings to flesh, showing every curving line of muscle in Dick's body and it's Dick. It's Dick. Perfect.

The new costume is–it's–it looks... in it, Dick looks... he—

...I am going to have to get photographs of the new costume.

But I want Robin back. Dick needs to be Robin. Robin is his destiny. Being Robin makes him _happy_. Bruce is pretending he doesn't want Dick to be Robin, and Dick is pretending he doesn't need Robin anymore. But he does. Bruce and Dick need to work together again. Dick needs to be Robin.

Dick will go back if Bruce asks him. Bruce is the problem. I will have to change his mind.

This will take some work.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce had hoped for tonight to go differently, but in Gotham City things very rarely go according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Not much this chapter: a few swears and a severed body part. No spoilers for anything more recent than the 1980s.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Most of the characters and locations in this story are © DC Entertainment Inc. and Warner Bros. Entertainment. All content is fictional and for entertainment purposes only, not for profit.
> 
> **Notes:** BACK BY POPULAR DEMAND~! I bet you thought that after two years this story was thoroughly dead, didn't you? NOPE. This is comics! The dead never _stay_ dead. Greatest apologies for the massive hiatus; big life upheavals, distractions in other fandoms, blah blah blah excuses yadda yadda. Apologies also, this _is_ an even-numbered chapter, so dearest Timmy remains off-screen, but I do promise much more Timmy in _all_ chapters in the future.
> 
> Scary!Timmy and friends now brought to you in beta! All of my gratitude to the talented [ava_jamison](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_jamison/pseuds/ava_jamison) for her assistance with this chapter. ♥
> 
> Also [available on LiveJournal](http://zolac-no-miko.livejournal.com/148663.html).

“Jason?”

Bruce Wayne descended into the Batcave, loosening his two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar tie. The soft slap of feet on the practice mats, faint gasps of breath, and the occasional sharp _kiyap_ echoed up from below, amplified by the immense limestone amphitheater of the cavern. Jason was out of sight beyond the looming bulk of the mechanical _Tyrannosaurus_ , but Alfred was visible amongst the trophies, polishing a case containing an ice gun liberated from Victor Fries. As Bruce approached the bottom of the stairs Alfred set aside his dusting cloth and came to meet him. “Good evening, sir.”

“Alfred.” Bruce delivered the tie into Alfred's waiting hands and got to work on his cufflinks.

“And how did things go at the board meeting, Master Bruce?”

Bruce hummed noncommittally.

“That well, sir?” Alfred's tone was dry as chalk as he followed Bruce to the lockers, collecting items of clothing as Bruce cast them off.

Bruce threw a smirk over his shoulder. “Nothing that breaking a few traffic laws in the Bugatti couldn't fix.”

Alfred's dry reached a new level of dry. “ _Indeed_ , sir.”

Bruce's smirk widened. “Brucie Wayne has a reputation to uphold, you know.”

“Bruce!” Jason Todd jogged up, dressed in a practice _gi_ and barefoot.

“Jason. Working hard, I see.” Bruce shimmied out of his trousers and opened a locker, reaching for a Batsuit.

Jason swiped a hand up through his hair, pushing sweat-soaked locks off his forehead; Bruce fought down a smile as his irrepressible cowlick bangs bounced back into place. The kid's brow furrowed in confusion as he watched Bruce dress. “You're not going out already, are you?”

Bruce raised his eyebrows. “It's six o'clock, Jason. It's full dark out.”

Jason's mouth dropped open in surprise. “Holy shi–aaaahhhh I mean... _really_?” he asked with a nervous, sidelong glance at Alfred, face abruptly pale.

Alfred gazed impassively at him for a long moment, then let his eyes slide to Bruce. “Master Jason has been down here all day, sir.”

“Hmmmm.” He eyed Jason appraisingly as he pulled on his boots. “And?”

Jason grinned. “I am kicking–” another nervous glance at Alfred, “– _so_ much butt on the bars today!”

Bruce's lip twitched. “Show me.”

Jason darted off in the direction of the uneven bars. Bruce took a moment to fasten his utility belt and caught Alfred's eye, giving him a meaningful look. Alfred raised his eyebrows. Bruce nodded. “Very good, sir,” he said, and Bruce followed in Jason's footsteps, leaving cape, cowl, and gauntlets in the locker.

He found Jason at the bars, slipping sweatbands onto his wrists and chalking up his hands. The boy had removed the top half of his _gi_ ; it had been folded neatly and laid on a bench. Bruce stood with his hands behind his back and watched him go through a series of stretches. He noted with satisfaction the solid planes of muscle that now adhered to his lithe frame. Jason barely resembled the wiry, too-thin kid he'd been when Bruce had found him; a few months of rigorous training and as much healthy food as he could eat had made a world of difference. He'd been smaller and slighter than most fourteen-year-olds; now Bruce reckoned the boy weighed more in solid muscle mass than any of his peers.

Bruce also took a moment to reflect on Jason's first reaction to the bars, not so very long ago– _Aren't the uneven bars for girls?!_ Bruce's lips twitched again.

Now, Jason walked over to the bars and glanced at Bruce, flashing him a wide, devilish grin. “Watch this,” he said, cocky, and jumped up to grab the lower bar. Bruce watched him swing to build up momentum, fly from one bar to the other, flip up into turns and handstands. _He_ has _improved,_ he thought. _He's not Dick—_ Bruce caught himself and scowled. _He doesn't have to be. He's more than good enough._

As Bruce looked on, Jason finished his routine, releasing the bar and tucking into a somersault before sticking the landing. Jason was frozen for a few moments before straightening his knees, raising his head to flash an elated grin at Bruce. “See? I am totally awesome!” he crowed, chest heaving; the tone of his voice dared Bruce to disagree, but there was a glimmer of wary, hopeful neediness in his eye.

Bruce smiled. “You did very well,” he said, and the joy that lit up Jason's entire face broke his heart a little, or maybe made it more whole. “I can see you've been practicing your landings; your knees are coming in on your somersaults a lot quicker now.” Jason nodded, his eyes on Bruce, rapt and flushed, but before Bruce could continue his thoughts were interrupted by a soft 'ping!' Jason's eyes slid to the Batcomputer and back. Bruce didn't need to look–Commissioner Gordon had turned on the Batsignal.

Jason's eyes burned with hopefulness and yearning. Bruce took a breath. “...There are a couple of things I'd like you to work on while I'm gone,” he said, and watched the boy slump with disappointment then rush to cover it, lifting his chin and waiting dutifully for his instructions. Bruce turned; Alfred was approaching, carrying a slim box and the remaining pieces of Batman's gear. Bruce took the cape and cowl from him, fastening them around his neck. “First, work on straightening your knees and pointing your toes in the handstands. Knees and toes.” Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce saw Jason nod solemnly. “Second, I want you to get used to moving in this.” Bruce took the box from Alfred and held it out to Jason, his eyes flicking up to meet the boy's startled gaze.

Jason held his breath, brow furrowing in puzzlement as he slowly reached out and took the box. He opened it.

Inside–folds of crimson, emerald, and gold, a bold 'R' on the breast.

Jason's eyes snapped up, wide and blue, his knuckles standing out white as his fingers tightened on the box. “ _Are you serious?_ ” he breathed.

Bruce smiled. “It's yours.” He pulled on his gauntlets. “I'm going to see what Jim Gordon's got for me. I make no promises, but depending on what it is....” He fixed Jason with a serious look. “Be ready.”

The boy's eyes shone. “Oh, I will be! ...I am!”

“I know,” Bruce said, eyes crinkling fondly. He pulled the cowl over his head, nodding to his valet as he headed toward the Batmobile. “Alfred.”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred returned in kind, and he and Jason stood side by side and watched as the Batmobile tore out of the Cave.

Alfred glanced down to see Jason stroking the Robin “R” reverently, fingers trembling slightly. The old man had his misgivings, but it was hard not to feel warm at the sight. “Well then,” he suggested, “why don't we see how it looks on you?”

Jason's grin threatened to split his face, and he bounced on his toes. “Alfred!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “This is—!” His mouth hung open, searching for words.

“I know, Master Jason,” Alfred said kindly, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. “Let's go.”

Alfred helped Jason with his tunic and cape and mask, then stood back and watched, amused, as he posed and turned and preened in the mirror. “And what do we think, Master Jason?”

Jason whooped, springing into a back handspring for the joy of it. “It's f–awesome!!” he exclaimed, grinning. “Although....” He stepped closer to the mirror, running a hand through his strawberry-blond locks contemplatively. “...Robin ought to have black hair, don't you think?”

~ ~ ~

Jim Gordon stood on the roof of police headquarters, his hands in his pockets and his eyes squinting upwards at where the Batsignal's light washed up against the clouds. He held himself perfectly still, listening. It was a game he played with himself sometimes... could he hear some small flap of cloth, some tiny creak of leather as the Batman arrived?

The bright circle of the Batsignal vanished before his eyes. He turned; the Dark Knight loomed next to the modified searchlight, his hand on the switch, solid and still as if he'd always been there.

It was a game Gordon never won.

“Jim,” Batman rumbled in greeting, nodding slightly. “What is it tonight?”

“Someone left a present for you,” Gordon said. He jerked his head toward the stairway access. “Come on, let's go to my office.” He led the way to the access door and held it open, turning; Batman had vanished from the roof. Gordon sighed.

He jogged down the stairs to his floor, but was totally unsurprised when he opened the door to his office to find the curtains blowing in an open window and Batman... the only word for it was 'lurking', in the corner near his desk. “Do you actually know _how_ to use stairs?” Gordon groused.

“I assume this is my present?” Batman growled, holding up a sterile evidence bag containing a small cardboard box that he'd lifted from Gordon's desk.

Gordon nodded. “We've been through it already– took every precaution, of course. Go on and open it.”

Batman slipped the box from the bag. There was an envelope glued to the lid of the box; Batman opened it, removing a plain white card, printed all in caps in a bold, showy font: 'PIGS DON'T FLY. THIS IS FOR THE ONE WITH WINGS.' Batman flipped it over; the reverse was printed with, 'CONSIDER A HATCHET BURIAL. HE NEEDS YOU,' in the same font. “Hmmmm,” Batman commented, and opened the box. Nestled in some tissue was a sealed glass jar containing a human ear, preserved in a clear, colorless liquid.

“Formalin,” Gordon said. “If it's been in there very long, we won't be able to extract any DNA. All of the materials used are generic, and common: you could buy any of these in a score of different places within Gotham city limits alone. And, of course, it's not like there's a shortage of missing ears in this town. No fingerprints on anything, and no hair or blood or skin that we've found so far. The forensics boys are eager to have it back; I'll let you know what they find, but it's not looking good so far.”

Batman was inspecting the ear in the jar. “Someone careful, and smart. No sort of calling card, so it's not one of the usual Arkham crowd, unless they have a reason for playing mysterious.”

“So, then... any idea who the ear belongs to? Or who sent it?”

“No one specific comes to mind.”

“That 'hatchet burial' remark... I'm thinking that refers to Nightwing?”

Batman grunted.

Gordon cleared his throat. “Seems like whoever it is is deeply concerned with the health of your, ah... partnership.”

“Hnnn. A _fan_.”

“So it seems. Someone who cares... and it has to be someone who interacts with you a lot, to be able to notice... staffing changes.”

Batman stared at him evenly. “...Well I'm almost certain it's not you, Jim.”

Gordon rolled his eyes. “Hardy har har. So you make _jokes_ now.”

The door to Gordon's office burst open. “Commissioner!” A young cop– rookie by the name of... Officer Atkinson?– stumbled into the room, eyes widening at the imposing figure of the Batman.

Gordon scowled at him. “Try knocking next time, Atkinson!” he barked. “Now what's so important that you come barging in here—”

“Garfield Lynns,” Batman interjected, two fingers pressed to the side of his cowl. He frowned, listening. “He's burning buildings in the tech sector.” He was already striding toward the window. “We'll continue this conversation later, Commissioner,” he added gravely, then stepped through the window and fell from sight.

Gordon spun on his heel, nearly running for the door. “With me, Atkinson!” he ordered. “If we hurry we might even get there in time to be useful. BULLOCK! MONTOYA! Wheels up, let's go, I want every available officer, look lively people!”

~ ~ ~

The Batmobile tore through the streets of Gotham, engine roaring and tires squealing as Batman pushed it to its limits. “Tell me everything, Batgirl,” he ordered sharply. “What do we know?”

“At least five buildings are on fire so far, between 8th and 10th near Washington Avenue. Lynns was on the scene when we arrived but he disappeared quick when he saw us, hasn't shown his face since.”

“He hasn't left. Hiding, yes, but still on the scene. He'd want to watch. ...We?”

“Nightwing's here,” Batgirl admitted hesitantly.

“Good. I'll look for Lynns. The two of you concentrate on search and rescue; this time of night there could be a lot of people still in the buildings.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Batman out.” Batman switched off the com, then, after a moment's thought, pressed a few buttons to switch to a new preset. “Robin.”

Jason's voice answered breathlessly and immediately. “Yes, Batman!”

“Garfield Lynns made his move, he's attacked a number of buildings in the tech sector, on Washington between 8th and 10th. I admit I'd hoped for something a little more routine for your first night out, but needs must. ...You're ready.” It was not a question.

“I am,” Jason's– _Robin's_ voice replied without hesitation, steady and determined. “What do you want me to do?”

“Assist the fire department in search and rescue. Wear the oxygen mask and be _careful_.”

“I will! I promise. I'll make you proud.”

Batman's voice warmed just slightly, softened a little. “I'm already proud. Good luck, Robin. Batman out.”

~ ~ ~

“Nightwing, what's your status?” Batgirl's voice was faint over the comm against the roar of flames and pumps and hoses. Nightwing adjusted his earpiece.

“All of the buildings between Washington and Lincoln are cleared of civilians. I'm out of extinguisher capsules, but the fire department's making headway; I think they can take it from here. You need a hand?”

“We've got our buildings emptied out, too. Batman's got Lynns in custody.”

“Of course he has.” Nightwing fired a grapple and fell from his rooftop, swinging to the west. He didn't have to ask Batgirl where she'd be; the roof of the Kendall Building offered the best vantage point of the Jefferson Avenue blocks affected by the fire.

“Are you seriously sounding annoyed that Garfield Lynns is no longer rampaging through Gotham?”

“Of course not. I'm thrilled to hear the news.” Nightwing touched down on a gravelly rooftop, rolled, kept running, launched himself from the snarling snout of a gargoyle. “I guess that settles it, then.”

“Settles what?”

“The Lone Ranger doesn't need a sidekick.” He could just hear her sigh over the com. Or maybe he was imagining that. “But I might. I'm thinking of doing a stakeout at Macky's Diner, could use a partner. Dangerous business.”

“Those bacon cheeseburgers are mighty suspicious,” she agreed, a warm thread of amusement in her voice.

“Milkshakes, too. It's our civic duty to investigate.” She laughed, and Nightwing grinned. He could see her now: perched at the very edge of the roof with one boot propped against the low parapet, looking down on the chaos in the street below, red hair streaming out behind her. Red as the tongues of flames licking out from broken windows. Red as the firetrucks crowding the streets. Beautiful.

Nightwing calculated the trajectory of his flight, fired off another grapple, grinned as the cable caught his weight and pulled him, carving an arc through the air. Math and poetry. ...Sure, Batman was a jerk, but his life wasn't so bad, was it?

A flash of color caught his eye; a small figure flipped from a fire escape onto the Kendall Building's roof, spotted Batgirl, and started walking towards her. She turned to look at– him, a boy in red and green and gold. _Robin_.

Nightwing missed his dismount. Hastily recalculating, he caught a flagpole, ricocheted off of a window ledge and landed neatly, if heavily, between Batgirl and– the kid.

The kid jumped so hard he nearly fell over.

Nightwing advanced on him. “I don't know who the hell you think you are, kid, but you're gonna want to run home before you hurt yourself,” he growled.

The kid gaped for a second, then scowled, standing as tall as he was able. Which wasn't very tall. “I got a right to be here. I earned it! And I don't take orders from _you_.”

Nightwing gritted his teeth. “Listen, kid, playtime is over, you need to get back to your parents before they miss you. You should leave the superheroing to the professionals. Batgirl, back me up here.” He ignored the way the kid stiffened with outrage.

Batgirl said, “......Oh.”

Nightwing froze, then turned very slowly to look at her. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth fell open, gaped uselessly, and shut itself again. Nightwing stared. “...You have got to be kidding me.”

“You're the old Robin, aren't you?” The kid sounded curious, appraising. “Why'd you leave, anyway? No one seems to want to tell me.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” Nightwing shouted.

Batgirl flinched. “Nightwing—”

“You KNEW,” he accused. “You knew and you didn't tell me!”

Batgirl set her jaw. “He told me not to.” Nightwing reeled at that, and Batgirl tried again, desperately, “Nightwing—”

“Of course he did, and why would you even _think_ to contradict him—”

“I told her not to because I was going to tell you myself,” Batman growled, stepping forward out of a shadow no one else had known was there.

Nightwing stalked forward, utterly unimpressed with the theatrics. “I can't _believe_ you,” he snarled. “How long was I gone before you started shopping for a replacement? Where did you find this one, huh?” Whose kid is this?!”

“Mine,” Batman replied calmly. Nightwing froze. “The paperwork goes through tomorrow.”

There was a long, tense moment when nobody moved or spoke, then Nightwing breathed out a shaky laugh. “Good fucking luck, kid.”

“ _Eat me_ ,” he snarled.

“Robin.” Batman put a hand on his shoulder. “...Let's go.” He turned and stalked away, and Robin reluctantly followed, giving Nightwing a vicious stink-eye.

Nightwing turned his back on both of them, squeezing his fists and his eyes shut.

Batgirl took a cautious step towards him. “Dick—”

“No names in the field, _Batgirl_.”

“ _Nightwing_ , I'm sorry, he wanted to tell you in person. I didn't know Robin would be here tonight or I would've warned you—”

Nightwing whirled on her. “See, that's the part you just don't seem to understand, you can't trust him to tell you _anything_. But I guess I'm not really one to talk, because I keep thinking I can trust _you_ —” He broke off, ducking his head for a moment, then lifting it again, sad and weary. “I thought I could trust _you_.”

“You can.” Batgirl's voice shook a little. “It wasn't supposed to happen this way.” She stepped forward again, laid a hand on his arm. “Nightwing. I'm sorry.”

Nightwing fell still at her touch. After a moment he reached up and lifted her hand from his arm, gently setting it aside. “I believe you,” he said, “but I'm not ready to forgive you.” Then he turned and jumped off the roof.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim goes looking for Dick, and finds... someone else instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Nothing much this chapter, aside from a general feeling of creepifaction and menace. But you should be expecting that by now. Scary!Timmy is still not your friend.
> 
> **Notes:** GOOD NEWS, TIMMY FANS!! He's baaaaaaaaaaaack~!  >:D
> 
> The greatest of thanks to the magnificent [ava_jamison](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_jamison/pseuds/ava_jamison), excellent beta and friend. ♥ If I dared to compare myself to Batman, she would be Alfred-freaking-Pennyworth. If any part of this chapter is less than perfection, it's because I blatantly and foolishly ignored her sage advice.
> 
> This chapter also available [on my LiveJournal](http://zolac-no-miko.livejournal.com/150904.html).

My parents came home from Bogotá yesterday. (It was a very short trip. Next they will go to Buenos Aires.) They insisted on a family dinner, which caused me to miss Garfield Lynns' arson attack entirely. Frustrating. Dick definitely would have been there, and it would have been a rare opportunity to photograph Dick with optimal lighting. They've ruined that for me. They ought to be punished.

...But I suppose it does little good to punish them if they don't know what they are being punished for.

Even so, I must go out tonight. It has been almost a week. I feel the itch beneath my skin.

Family dinner again tonight. When I have finished I tell my parents I am feeling very tired, and I go straight up to my room and close the door. I turn off the light, but I don't get into bed. I pack and dress in the dark, wrapping myself in layers of wool and fleece and down against the cold, and consider where I will go.

...Police headquarters. After a high-profile crime like last night's, it is possible that Dick will wish to consult with Jim Gordon, even though the Firefly has already been apprehended. I'm not certain that Bruce always shares information with Dick anymore, but I have seen that Dick and Jim are still on good terms.

Yes. Police headquarters. I climb out my window.

~ ~ ~

Across the street from police headquarters is an office building, and one of the offices is empty, has been empty for a year. The fire escape outside the office window is among the best places to watch from. It sits in one of the shadow-places, the ones that the city lights never quite reach. The ladder of the fire escape creates some cover, and I hauled a crate up here eight months ago as an extra blind. I am well hidden. My watching place is eighteen floors up; I will not be disturbed.

From here I can see the roof of the headquarters. I can see the Batsignal; it is not on tonight, but Dick could still come, or Bruce could. I can also see into Jim's office; the light is on, and he is at his desk, working. I assemble my tripod and settle in for a long wait.

I keep my eyes trained on the building across the street, unfocused and ready to track any movement. I let my mind wander. Winter break is nearly over. This means I will be spending much of my time in classes and completing my classwork. In order to see Dick, I will have to sleep less. On the other hand, when I am not in class or another scheduled activity, my time will be my own. My parents will be unable to interrupt even if they are at home. Sneaking out of the school is always so easy. No one notices when I am gone.

In another month, training for track and field season will begin. This will be another significant drain on my time. But the training is necessary, the way air riflery, jujitsu, and gymnastics are necessary. I must better myself. I have to be worthy of Dick.

I received a note from Dale Thompson recently. He is the captain of my school's track and field team. He is planning a party for the team at the beginning of training. He says he is looking forward to seeing me there. He says he would love to have my input in planning the party.

He is not looking forward to seeing me. He would not love to have my input. He sucks up to me because I am the star of the team, but he does not like me. None of them do. They think I'm stuck up. ...I'm not. I just find them boring. They don't interest me. But I'm not stuck up.

Something catches my eye and I refocus. Jim is leaving his office. I look back in my short-term memory; Jim received a call on his telephone. He glanced out the window as he spoke. He didn't speak long, and when he hung up he got up quickly and left the room.

The roof access door opens, and Jim steps out. I nudge my camera into a more comfortable position and hold my breath. One of them is here, Dick or Bruce, or maybe Barbara. I don't see anyone and neither does Jim, but they are probably already on the roof.

Motion; Bruce steps out from behind an air conditioning unit. I let my breath out slowly. Dick probably is not here. Bruce and Dick don't often spend time together anymore.

Bruce walks towards Jim, and someone follows him. My breath stops in my lungs. _Robin_.

No. No. It's all wrong. This one is younger, smaller. This fake, this pretender, is dressed up in Robin's clothes, in _Dick's_ clothes, and—

Bruce is introducing the false Robin to Jim. They are shaking hands. My vision narrows down, and the world fills with a buzzing, ringing sound.

~ ~ ~

I wake up the next morning in my room. I am lying on my bed, but my clothes are still on and I'm wearing my shoes. I don't remember much of what happened last night, but I remember the fake Robin at Bruce's side, shaking Jim's hand, and I burn in a flash of anger. My skin feels hot and cold at the same time.

I practice meditative breathing. I am angry, but I must remain calm. It is distressing that I've lost time, when usually my memory is excellent. I am very, very angry; I can't remember being so angry before.

I must remain calm. I count my breaths. When my hands no longer shake, I shower, put on fresh clothing, and go downstairs.

My parents are eating breakfast and discussing the newspaper. “Bruce Wayne adopted some street punk,” says my dad.

“Look at him,” says my mom. “Black hair and blue eyes, just like the last one. It's a little weird, don't you think? Mr. Wayne must have some kind of _thing_ for little boys who look just like him.” She titters.

“Now Janet, it's probably just that he has sympathy for little boys with no parents,” says my dad.

“I think it's a little weird,” replies my mom.

I take the section of the paper that talks about Bruce Wayne and his adopted son. His name is Jason Todd. He is fourteen years old. He is to be enrolled in Clement Smythe Academy.

I look at the picture of Jason Todd; he and Bruce are standing on the front steps of Wayne Manor, dressed in suits. One of Bruce's hands rests on Todd's shoulder. Todd isn't smiling, not the way Robin should smile. Not the way Dick smiles. He isn't smiling.

“Are you feeling any better this morning?” asks my mom.

It takes me a moment to remember what she is talking about. “No,” I tell her, “today I am feeling worse.”

I am looking at the picture of Bruce and Jason Todd. I see Bruce's hand resting on Todd's shoulder as if he belongs there. I see Todd dressed in red and green and gold. I see Jim shaking his hand. As if he belongs.

Bruce Wayne will have to be punished for this. Jason Todd will have to suffer.

I think while I eat my breakfast. I construct plans and throw them away. It does not take long for me to decide. ...Yes. I have a plan.

Jason Todd and I will be the very best of friends.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason struggles to adjust to his new life. Dick and Bruce, meanwhile, must learn to work through their differences when it becomes clear that a new, unsettling case involves both of them. Dick, it seems, has a fan....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Not much this chapter. Extremely brief, vague mentions of murder and severed body parts.
> 
>  **Notes:** Yep, I'm still working on it. Still here. I will finish this, come hell or high water. I mean, how could I stop? Things are just getting interesting~!  >:D
> 
> The fabulous and invaluable [regonym](http://archiveofourown.org/users/regonym) has stepped in for beta services on this chapter.
> 
> Also available [on my LiveJournal](http://zolac-no-miko.livejournal.com/161108.html).
> 
> And new, for your listening pleasure: [the official _I'll Be Yours (A Love Story)_ soundtrack](http://zolac-no-miko.livejournal.com/160783.html) is out!

“So,” Bruce said, setting down a tray well-laden with food—cheeseburger and fries and a milkshake for Jason, a grilled chicken salad and iced tea for Bruce—and sliding into the booth, “let's talk about school.”

Jason, scowling petulantly at the world through the big picture window, turned to scowl petulantly in the general direction of Bruce instead, although he sullenly kept his eyes cast down toward the table. “I don't get why I even have to go to school. I mean, it's not really applicable, is it? You can teach me everything I need to know.”

“Wrong. School will teach you a _lot_ of the things that you will need to know. It's important to have a broad base of skills, and certain subjects are especially relevant in our line of work—math, chemistry, and physics, for instance. I'd also encourage you to take up drama as an elective next year.”

Jason prodded doubtfully at his milkshake. “I _guess_ I can see that. But how the hell is _history_ ever going to be useful?”

“You'd be surprised.” Bruce sipped at his iced tea.

“It's just—it takes up so much time that I could be using to do—other stuff. And I'm not—I'm not _good_ at it. I don't know the stuff I'm supposed to and everybody makes fun of me for it. I'm not _smart_ , Bruce.” Jason's face screwed up in frustration and something just a little more fragile.

Bruce leaned forward on his elbows. “You've had an atypical upbringing, Jason. You haven't read all of the books the other kids have. But there's nothing wrong with your brain. You're a quick learner; you'll catch up.”

Jason looked doubtful. “I dunno, Bruce, some of the stuff in the textbooks, it's like a whole other language. I don't even know where to start.”

“Alfred and I will help as much as we can, of course, but we both have other responsibilities. ...Until you find your footing, I think you ought to see a tutor.”

Jason groaned. “Aww, come on, Bruce—!”

“Let me make one thing clear,” Bruce said, pinning Jason with a serious look. “I expect you to attend school, and I expect you to do well. If you expect to participate in... extra-curricular activities, you will complete your homework every day, and you will keep your grades up. Understood?” Jason looked stormy, but nodded. “This is not a punishment, Jason. I want you to succeed. I know it doesn't seem like it now, but when you look back years from now you'll see that a proper education is the most important tool in your belt. Please trust me on this?” Jason sighed heavily, but nodded again. “And you'll find yourself a tutor?”

Slumping in defeat, Jason propped his cheek on one hand. “There's a message board outside the school library, I think I've seen notices for tutors. I'll take a look on Monday. Okay?”

“Thank you, Jason.” Bruce took a bite of his salad, eyeing Jason as he chewed. The kid's pout was truly spectacular. “Aren't you hungry? Your dinner is going cold.”

Jason looked for a moment like he might boycott food out of pure obstinacy, but then he grabbed his burger and took a monster bite, groaning and rolling his eyes dramatically. “God, why are these burgers so good?” Jason enthused with his mouth full. He swallowed. “I swear, Macky's gotta be a black magic wizard or something.”

Bruce watched with amusement as more burger vanished into Jason's bottomless pit. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Jason gazed lovingly at his food. “This burger. Is my favorite burger.”

“I think you said as much the last five times we came here.”

“And when I change my tune you'll know I've been replaced by a pod person,” Jason said around a mouthful of fries.

Bruce's lips twitched. Jason arched an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing.” Jason's other eyebrow went up, and Bruce chuckled. “Nothing, I was just thinking, _I_ don't mind, but Alfred—”

Jason groaned heartily, swallowing his food and wiping his mouth with a napkin before speaking again. “Pennyworth's got a glare that can curdle milk. Where did he learn to do that, butlering school?”

“Technically he's a valet....”

“Oh well _that_ explains it.” Jason leaned in with his elbows on the table, ducking his head and lowering his voice. “Hey, so... what's the word on Firefly?”

Bruce leaned in just slightly. “The word is 'work in progress,'” he murmured.

“That's three words.”

“Shush.” Bruce took a sip of his iced tea. “Lynns was paid to torch those buildings by the same person or persons who helped to bust him out of Arkham. He claims not to know who hired him or why, however; he dealt only with underlings, and they were wearing masks. He's got no names or faces.”

“You believe him?”

“He was telling the truth.”

“How do you know?”

“I'll teach you how to spot a lie, remind me. Anyway, I asked him for honesty. I can be very convincing.”

“Brrr.” Jason dipped a fry in his milkshake and ate it. “Still thinking it could be Poison Ivy?”

“It's impossible to say at this juncture. It's starting to seem unlikely.” Bruce chewed thoughtfully on some lettuce. “First we need to find a motive, that will lead us to the culprit. ...We'll figure it out.”

A smile was growing on Jason's face. “Yeah. _We_ will. Definitely.”

Bruce's eyes crinkled, but a moment later the small, warm smile dropped off of his face, his eyes caught by something outside of the window. “Hmmm.” Jason craned his head to look; the Batsignal hovered like a ghost in the clouds above the city. “Guess I'd better take this salad to go.”

“Can I come?” Jason was squirming in his seat, practically vibrating with excitement. “Please?”

Bruce gave him a measured look. “We _were_ just discussing your academics....”

“I said I'd get a tutor, didn't I? And I promise I'll do nothing but study all day tomorrow and I won't even complain, cross my heart, _please_ Bruce?”

After a moment's consideration, Bruce held out a hand for Jason to shake. “Deal,” he said, smiling. “C'mon, sport, let's go.”

~ ~ ~

Nightwing looked down on the city from where he sat perched on a gargoyle, legs idly swinging in the void. He breathed in deeply and let it out again. Up on the rooftops the air was cold and clean, and the lights of Gotham were downright pretty, warm and twinkling.

It wasn't so bad, the solo work. Word about Nightwing had started to spread in the underworld, and when he'd interrupted the robbery of a street cart earlier, the perp had groaned with the same kind of dread that, in Nightwing's experience, had generally been reserved for the Batman, an experience that Nightwing had found strangely satisfying. Plus, the grateful cart-owner had given him as many cones of hot candied pecans and cashews as he could carry, so that had been nice.

Nightwing was taking his own cases, following his own leads, making his own decisions, and it was working well for him. He _liked_ it. He was starting to think that leaving Robin behind was the best thing that had happened to him in years.

Batman was _still_ a jerk, and the situation with Batgirl... well, that stung a bit, no use pretending it didn't. But living alone, being Nightwing... these were good things.

Nightwing chased a few stray sugar crystals at the bottom of his cone with a gloved finger, licking it clean. “Mmmm,” he commented to the gargoyle. “Tastes like gratitude. Gratitude and justice.”

His earpiece crackled. “Nightwing.” It was Batman.

Nightwing sat up straighter, then grimaced and rolled his eyes at himself. “Batman. What's up?” He flattened his paper cone and started folding it up to be tucked away into one of his hidden compartments.

“Busy?”

 _Nice of you to actually ask,_ Nightwing thought. “Not just at the moment.”

“Come to police headquarters. Gordon's got something you should see.”

Batman sounded grim. ...Well. Grimmer than usual. Nightwing frowned. “I'll be right there, give me... seven minutes.”

“Understood. Batman out.”

When Nightwing landed on the roof of police headquarters, Batman and Jim Gordon were in close consultation, heads bent over something Gordon was holding. Batman looked over to Nightwing and nodded a greeting, which Nightwing knew was as good as an invitation. He took a deep breath of chill winter air, steeling himself, and found himself childishly searching for a way to stall. Luckily, one presented itself immediately.

“Robin,” Nightwing said by way of greeting, and only felt a _little_ twinge when he said it. “Nice night.”

The silence behind him was palpable, and he turned around to find the kid frozen mid-stalk a few yards away, a hilarious expression of alarm, annoyance, and grudging admiration scrawled across his face. “You did a good job with the cat's paw,” Nightwing assured him, “but I could hear you breathing. Through the mouth, not the nose. It's quieter.”

The kid—Robin—deflated slightly, staring.

“Nice work with the Hess gang last week,” Nightwing continued conversationally.

Robin blinked hard several times. “Uh,” he said intelligently.

Nightwing smirked. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop in if you and the boss man needed a hand, but you didn't. I liked your thing with the forklift, that was _great_.”

“...Thanks?” Robin looked confused.

Nightwing sighed. “I'm sorry, I came on a little strong that first time. It wasn't about you, it was about me and him.” He jerked his thumb in Batman's direction. “You just caught me by surprise, is all. Hope there's no hard feelings.”

Robin flushed slightly. “Oh, uh. S'cool.”

“Nightwing. Robin.” Nightwing glanced over, and Batman inclined his head. Nightwing jogged over, Robin at his heels.

“Batman,” Nightwing greeted cautiously. “Commissioner.”

Gordon extended a gloved hand, and Nightwing shook it. “Good to see you, son.”

“How can I help?”

“Something's come up that concerns you directly,” Batman explained. “This was mailed to the police.” He handed Nightwing a small box, neatly gift-wrapped, although it clearly had already been opened once.

Nightwing glanced at Batman, and receiving a nod, he opened it. Inside was a folded slip of paper. Nightwing unfolded it, revealing a message printed in an ornate, showy font; it reminded him of Mr. Haley's old show posters. “BATS ARE BLIND, BUT YOU CAN SEE WELL ENOUGH FOR THE BOTH OF YOU. SEPARATING WAS A GRAVE MISTAKE. YOU KNOW THIS. IT'S ONLY MADE YOU BLUE. SINCERELY, YOURS.” Nightwing stared down at the paper, finding himself suddenly unwilling to look at Batman. He cleared his throat. “We're thinking this was meant for me, I gather? The blue's pretty on-point. ...Well. How thoughtful.”

“There was a finger in the box, too,” Robin added helpfully.

Nightwing stared at him. “Someone sent me a _finger_?”

“This isn't the first package like this that Gordon's received,” Batman said. “A couple of weeks ago—when the Lynns business happened—his office received a package containing an ear, and a message in the same font reading, “Pigs don't fly; this is for the one with wings,” and, “He needs you. Consider a hatchet burial.” To Nightwing's practiced eye, Batman looked distinctly, if subtly, uncomfortable. “At the time, we believed the message was intended for me. This new message leads us to believe we may have assumed incorrectly.”

“This is all awfully personal. Are we busy profiling marriage counselors?”

Robin snorted. Nightwing grinned at him. Finally, an appreciative audience!

“There's more,” Gordon said. “The finger was preserved in formalin, same as the ear—”

“—No DNA evidence,” Nightwing murmured.

“Exactly, but while we were waiting for you the fingerprint results came back.” He shook the folder he was holding. “You're going to love this.”

Nightwing took the folder and flipped it open. “Veronica Mary Pacer, deceased, homicide, lethal injection of sodium thiopental—Batman.” Nightwing's head jerked up, his eyes wide. “Batman, that's—this is our serial-killer.” Batman nodded grimly.

Robin's brow was furrowed in consternation, when suddenly his eyes lit up. “Right! Two known victims, Pacer and—and Swan. ...Oh! Oh! The ear! Swan was missing a left ear!”

Gordon nodded. “Montoya's checking the ear against the autopsy photos, I expect to hear back on it any—” His radio squawked. “Any minute now,” he continued, digging the radio out of his coat pocket. “Yes, hello, Montoya?”

Detective Montoya's voice crackled over the speaker. “It looks good boss. I'm not an expert, but it could very well be a match.”

“Thank you, Detective.” Gordon pocketed the radio, heaving a sigh. “So, what do we think?”

Nightwing was flipping through the report on Pacer. “Veronica's got a rap sheet, that's why you've got her prints. Minor stuff, I'm not seeing vendetta here, and Isaac Swan doesn't have a record.” He chewed on the inside of his lip. “...Do you think he knew? About her criminal record?”

Gordon was watching him closely. “What are you thinking, son?”

“It's just... a finger is an unusual choice. The preservative destroyed the DNA evidence, but he gave us her fingerprint, which still might've been useless... but she's got a rap.”

“You think he wanted us to connect his gifts to his victims,” Batman said.

“I do.”

Batman nodded. “So do I. It's odd. He didn't want us to know yet when he sent us the ear, but he clearly planned this well in advance. He always intended us to know, eventually. So why now?”

Robin was scratching at the back of his head. “Yeah, we know who the victims are now, but what are we supposed to do with that?”

“Is there something in the notes, do you think?” Gordon asked. “He seems to like cryptic language.”

Nightwing looked at the note again. “'Grave mistake.' Anyone else think that's an interesting choice of words?”

Batman was silent for a moment. “...The other note mentioned 'hatchet burial.'”

“...He wants us to go look at their graves?” Robin hazarded.

“You want me to track down what cemeteries they're buried in?” asked Gordon.

“No need,” Batman said. “Swan's at St. James' Cemetery. Pacer's at Pine Garden.”

Robin gaped at him. “What, you had that _memorized?_ ”

Nightwing huffed a laugh. “Kid, someday very soon you will cease to find these things surprising.”

“I made a note of it. Sometimes killers like to visit their victims and reminisce,” Batman said.

“Right, so, I'll check out Swan, you two check Pacer?” Nightwing suggested, backing toward the edge of the roof.

Batman nodded. “Jim. We'll be in touch.”

Jim raised a hand in acknowledgment. Nightwing backflipped off the roof and fired a line, swinging off into the darkness. St. James' had been a Gotham burial ground for over a century, and the tall buildings had grown up around it; Nightwing could travel by roof right up to the wrought-iron gate.

Nightwing fired off lines automatically, turning over the night's revelations in his mind. Their thiopental killer was stepping up his—or her—game, looking for attention from the GCPD and Gotham's vigilante community. There would probably be more killings soon. And the killer had a strong fixation on Nightwing. So... great. Nightwing had a _fan_. A fan who sent him preserved human body parts in gift wrapping. How nice.

More unnerving was the evidence of how closely they were being watched. The thiopental killer knew Batman had had a falling out with his former partner, and knew that the former Robin and Nightwing were one and the same. That's more than your average street thug would've figured out; this was someone who knew them. But none of this felt like any of Arkham's usual revolving-door club, not that Nightwing could think of.

Nightwing spotted the cemetery, a relatively dark patch of only sparse lamplight nestled amongst highrises and streetlights. Nightwing flipped easily over the high, spike-topped fence, picked the lock on the caretaker's building to access the burial records, and dodged a handful of drunken teenagers on his way to the newest part of the graveyard. He found the spot easily, a fresh headstone (the ground would've _just_ settled enough for the family to be able to install one) engraved with the name 'Isaac John Swan,' his epitaph, the years of his life. And something else, not professionally engraved but carved raggedly into the marble....

“Nightwing.” Batman's voice was low and urgent over comms.

Nightwing touched his ear. “Go ahead.”

“We found something. Roughly hand-carved into Pacer's headstone, the words 'I'll be yours.'”

“Yeah,” Nightwing said, and he was pretty sure his voice didn't sound entirely normal. “Yeah, I've got the same thing here.”

Nightwing stared at the jagged, block letters carved into Swan's headstone. 'I'LL BE YOURS.' Nightwing had a strong feeling, accompanied by the queasy twisting of his gut, that he was not going to enjoy this one.

~ ~ ~

The next few days were busy. A hostage situation, a bank robbery, and a couple of drug busts kept Batman, Robin, and Batgirl occupied. The Titans called Nightwing in to help with a Situation on another continent. Bruce Wayne had a board meeting and a tète-à-tète with the heads of Wayne Corp's R&D. Jason, as promised, studied diligently and went to school and only complained a _little_ about it.

Dick called Bruce's office from Titans Tower, once things had quieted down a little. “How did it go with the Titans?” Bruce asked.

“Too many tentacles involved; turned out okay,” Dick said. “...We need to talk.”

“Agreed,” Bruce said. “Come to the manor tonight. I'd like to keep Jason out of this as much as possible; he'll be busy with his new tutor.” He paused, and then offered, “...Dinner?”

Dick's pause was briefer. “Sure. Thank you.”

“Tonight then,” Bruce said, and hung up.

Dick came for dinner and Alfred made his favorite, pasta with a rich spaghetti sauce made from scratch, the recipe for which was a secret Alfred guarded more closely than the Batcave. Dinner conversation was light and uncontroversial, though Bruce was unsure if that was due to Dick's careful steering or his own. He watched Dick tease Jason, noting that his barbs were more fond than malicious. Bruce marveled at the boy he'd watched grow into a man—at his kind nature, at his ability to forgive—and felt a bittersweet pang, wondering if Dick would be able to forgive _him_.

A rich dessert followed the hearty dinner, and the three lingered at the table after Alfred had taken the dishes away. Dick and Jason chatted about music and movies until Alfred came to the doorway, clearing his throat delicately. “Master Jason's tutor has arrived; I've just buzzed him through the gate.”

Bruce stood. “Jason, why don't you get your things from upstairs; you can set up in the parlor.”

Dick got up, too. “I'll help, I remember how big those textbooks were. C'mon, kid.” Faced with the prospect of imminent tutoring, Jason was pouting, but he reluctantly pushed his chair back and stood, heading for the stairs.

“I'll meet our guest at the door,” Bruce said, and headed for the entry hall, Alfred following. The doorbell rang just as they arrived, and Bruce crossed the hall quickly and opened the door. A small, dark-haired, serious-faced boy stood on the step, gloved hands clutching the strap of his messenger bag.

“Hello,” the boy said. “My name is Timothy Drake. I am Jason's tutor.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason has a new tutor. Things are going very well for Timothy.
> 
> Very, very well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Very underaged character having sexual reactions and urges. Adult language. Timmy just generally being a creepo, as per usual.
> 
>  **Notes:** All of my hearts and other organs once again to super beta [regonym](http://archiveofourown.org/users/regonym) for slogging through the utterly baffling tangle of tenses and POVs I've chosen for this story in order to untie confusing sentences. You're the bestest, baby!
> 
> Also available on [my Livejournal](http://zolac-no-miko.livejournal.com/165790.html).
> 
> Enhance your scary!Timmy reading experience with the official I'll Be Yours (A Love Story) soundtrack, [Alone In My Darkroom Later](http://zolac-no-miko.livejournal.com/160783.html)!

It was Fate that led me to keep watch at Macky's, that day.

I knew my chances of seeing Dick would be high if I watched at police headquarters, or at one of the cemeteries. The police would have got my package—they would call Bruce, he would call Dick. But I knew also that, alerted to the idea of being watched, they might be more on their guard. I could not take the risk of being discovered, not yet. I had to avoid those places.

To keep myself busy, I looked elsewhere, early in the evening before the Batsignal was likely to turn on. A feeling sent me to Macky's Diner. It is a favorite of Dick and Barbara and Bruce. And _Todd_.

Fate sent me there.

I watched Bruce arrive. Todd was with him. Bruce chose a seat by the window, as he usually does. It permits him to watch the sky. It permits me to watch him.

Bruce and Jason Todd spoke about school, and I learned a very important thing: Jason Todd was in need of a tutor.

It is fortunate that I have worked so hard to excel in my own academic pursuits.

It was not difficult to ensure that Todd would choose me for tutoring. I broke into his school in the early hours of Monday morning, put up my tutoring notice, and took down all of the others.

All I had to do then was wait for his call.

~ ~ ~

“Hello,” I say, when Bruce opens the door. I have been a bit nervous about meeting Bruce; if anyone would be able to see through me, it would be him. I remind myself that he has no reason to suspect anything of me. I imitate my parents when meeting someone for the first time and project bland politeness. “My name is Timothy Drake,” I say. “I am Jason's tutor.”

Bruce blinks at me. After a moment, he beams brilliantly, a Brucie Wayne smile. “Timothy Drake? You're Jack and Janet's son, aren't you?”

“Yes, sir,” I tell him.

He beams wider. “How are they?”

“They're in Argentina,” I tell him.

“Good, good, that sounds swell. Well, come on in, Timothy, we're letting all the cold air in.” He holds the door open wider, stepping aside.

“I rode my bicycle here,” I say, gesturing to where it leans against its kickstand on the driveway behind me. “Should I leave it where it is?”

Alfred Pennyworth appears in the doorway. “I shall put it in the garage; I don't think it will snow but I'm not at all certain it won't rain. Please do come in, Master Drake.”

“Thank you,” I tell him. I wipe my shoes carefully on the doormat and step across the threshold of Wayne Manor. Alfred slips out behind me, and Bruce shuts the door.

“Right this way,” he says. “Jason will be in the front parlor.”

I follow Bruce to the parlor. The furniture looks expensive, but not uncomfortable. There are two small stacks of textbooks on a coffee table in front of one of the sofas. Jason Todd is there.

So is Dick.

They look up when I enter the room. Todd looks sullen and nervous. Dick smiles, and it is difficult after that to see anything else. I haven't been this close to him in—years. More than half of my life. He is so _beautiful_. I try not to stare.

“Whoops, guess I'd better get out of your hair,” he says, heading towards the door, towards me. He tousles Todd's hair in passing. “Study hard, punk.” Todd scowls and tries to punch him in the arm. Dick dodges neatly, coming up to me and extending his hand to shake. “Hi there. You must be Tim.” He smiles.

 _Tim,_ he calls me. _Tim._ I can barely hear past the buzzing in my ears. “Yes,” I say. “You're Richard Grayson.” I remember to take his hand. Dick's hand is warm when he squeezes mine; his handshake is firm but gentle. “You... know me?” I ask. I feel breathless, and try not to show it.

“Jason showed me your tutoring notice. Your credentials are very impressive. ...And please, call me Dick.”

Warmth fills me, and I can't help but smile, just a little bit. “Dick.” My heart beats so hard he must be able to hear it. I am filled with the certainty of Truth. He still loves me! _Dick loves me._

Dick is smiling. “Well, I'll leave you to it. I'll see you around, Tim.” He steps around me, touching my arm in passing. “Bruce. Shall we?”

I had forgotten Bruce was there. The palm of my hand tingles where it met Dick's, and I am half hard. I shift my messenger bag to cover it. Later I will go to my darkroom and remember what it felt like when he touched me.

With a slow, deep breath, I gather my concentration, center myself in the moment. Todd is watching me with suspicion and trepidation. I cross over to him and sit at the other end of the sofa with my messenger bag on my lap (I am still agitated; I will need another minute to recover) and offer him my hand. “Timothy,” I say, simply; I must try not to be too formal with him.

He eyes my hand dubiously. (Perhaps I have already been too formal.) “Jason,” he says, and shakes it.

“Which subject would you like to start with?” I ask.

His face twists unhappily. “Math. Geometry. I can't wrap my head around the proofs.”

I nod. “Let's start by going over your notes from class together.”

We go through his notes, stopping to discuss the concepts he is struggling with. Todd is defensive about things he doesn't know; I assume his classmates have mocked him for it. I am careful to control the tone of my voice so he has no cause to hear impatience or disdain in it. It works; Todd seems to relax and asks questions without sounding conflicted about it.

Alfred comes by with mugs of hot cocoa and a tray of light snacks, fruit and cheese. We finish working through Todd's geometry homework assignment and take a short break.

Todd eyes me, taking a bite of a slice of apple. “You don't go to Clement Smythe, do you?” he asks, challenging.

“No,” I agree. “I'm at Lawrence Benedict, but I plan to attend Brentwood Academy next year.”

He considers this. “Boarding schools, right?”

“Yes.”

“Expensive. Your family's rich? You dress like a rich kid,” he comments. With his tone of voice it doesn't sound complimentary.

“Yes, my parents are quite wealthy. ...You're a rich kid, too,” I point out.

Todd makes a face as if he has eaten something that has started to spoil.

I tilt my head, considering. “I bet they don't like you, at Clement Smythe,” I say, and watch Todd bristle defensively. “Am I right? They resent anyone different. If you're new money, if your parents aren't members of the Yacht Club. Me, because I'm clever.” I let my disdain bleed through. I try to sound like I'm bitter, like it hurts. “Trust me,” I tell him, “they're not worth your time.”

Todd is watching me differently, now. Cautious respect, a little guilt. “You must be pretty smart. You're like, half my age. Skipped grades?”

“Yes, I have.”

He considers this for a few moments. “I bet they hate that.”

“They do.”

Todd thinks this over. “You seem all right to me,” he decides. He juts his chin out challengingly. “Fuck 'em.”

I smile. “Yes. Fuck them,” I agree.

He grins wide. My own smile widens.

This is good. We are bonding. It is exactly as I hoped.

Todd eats a handful of grapes, watching me speculatively. “Why are you doing this?” he asks me eventually. It's not like you need the money. Do you really have nothing better to do?”

“Tutoring experience looks good on college applications,” I tell him.

He snorts. “Kid, you're like eleven. Isn't it a bit early to be worrying about college?”

“I'm twelve,” I tell him. “And I expect to be applying to colleges within two years. ...Anyway, I want to earn my own money. My parents let me buy whatever I want, but if it's something 'frivolous' they bring it up when they are cross as an example of how I am 'spoiled' or 'entitled' or something of the sort.” The air-quotes are clearly audible. “If I buy things with my own money they can't say anything.”

I made that up. My parents don't care what I buy.

Todd looks sympathetic. “Wow. Your parents sound really annoying.”

“Yes,” I agree. “Fortunately they are abroad most of the year.”

Todd barks out a laugh. "Small mercies, right?"

"Yes." I sip my cocoa, thinking quickly. I want to keep him talking. I want to find threads that will tie us together. "What is Mr. Wayne like, as a parent?" I ask. I know that Bruce is sometimes difficult. It is what separated Dick and Bruce. It is why it has been necessary for me to intervene.

Todd screws his face up thoughtfully. "Bruce is okay, mostly," he says. "I mean...." He looks down at his lap, fidgeting a little. "He's great. He's done a _lot_ for me, and he didn't have to... took me into his home, buys me stuff. I'm super grateful for that, for everything. Always will be." He bites his lip.

I raise my eyebrows. "But?"

"... _But_ , he can be a bit of a hard-ass," Todd admits, giving me a rueful smile. "I'm used to doing what I want, you know? But he has _so_ many rules, and he's not super into compromising. School every day, regular exercise, no drinking, no smoking, gotta eat right... I have a bedtime. A _bedtime_. Pennyworth's even stricter, can't say bad words, or like. Talk with my mouth full."

I make a sympathetic face. "That sounds like boarding school."

Todd winces. "Ouch, man. Sucks, right?"

I nod. "This is why I want to go to college early."

Todd laughs again. Laughter is good. Laughter accelerates bonding. "Okay, yeah, that's starting to make sense." His mouth twists a little; wry, bitter. "Too bad it's not an option for me."

"I think you are underestimating my tutoring skills," I tell him, and yes, he is laughing again. Good.

"You're a hell of a lot better at explaining geometry than my math teacher is," he admits, smiling.

"I have had experience with a lot of math teachers, and so I suspect that would not be difficult," I tell him, and he grins. "What else are you having trouble with?"

He winces. "I've got a history test coming up, and there's all this stuff I have to memorize."

"All right," I say. "Show me."

~ ~ ~

When I leave, Todd schedules another meeting. "Maybe we can play video games afterwards," he says, grinning. Bruce shakes my hand at the door. Alfred Pennyworth gives me oatmeal raisin cookies in a paper bag.

Dick smiles. He touches my shoulder. "Take care," he says. "See you again," he says. A burning warmth fills me up and does not leave me as I peddle towards my house. I am headed towards my darkroom, to remember.

Everything has gone well.

Very, very well.


End file.
